


He Gets That From Me

by Er0sennin



Category: Fallout - Fandom, Fallout 3
Genre: And a healthy dose of angst, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Fluff, lots of yelling and hand gestures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22357075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Er0sennin/pseuds/Er0sennin
Summary: Donna Rossi never thought she'd grace the halls of her old vault again. She never thought she'd see the father of her child again, either.
Relationships: Butch DeLoria/Female Lone Wanderer, Slight Charon and Female Lone
Comments: 47
Kudos: 89





	1. Cat's in the Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> Yo! This idea came to me during one of those frenzied creative episodes at 3 in the morning and I just had to write it out. I'm not sure how long this will be and it's my first attempt at anything remotely fluffy. BUT, sit back. Grab a drink. Put on your favorite sweatpants. Enjoy the show.

“How long are you going to be gone?” Charon asked, back pressed against the doorway.

Donna eyed him from her spot in the kitchen, her hands pausing their work before carrying on again.

The bag of supplies rustled as she reached into it, setting a few boxes of food and stims onto the counter top. She divvied up a pile of what she thought she might need and worked on putting the rest away, making sure to leave a box of Dandy Boy apples out for Luca when he woke up from his nap.

Charon crossed his arms over his chest at her lack of response, the exposed muscles around his mouth tightening as he frowned.

“Funny, I didn’t mention I was leaving at all.” Donna hummed as she retrieved her pack from the doorway, dumping a pile of ammunition onto the table.

“You didn’t have to,” Charon grumbled, taking a seat at the table. “You’ve gathered enough supplies here to last for months.”

“That I have,” she sighed. She ran her fingers over a few plasma cartridges, taking inventory. 

Moira had been stingy about her stock of ammunition and she spent most of the morning haggling the price. Donna gladly forked over extra the caps just so she didn’t have so suffer through hearing any more of Moira’s nasally, cheerful voice than she had to. That woman did drive a hard bargain, though.

She supposed fifty cartridges would be sufficient; her destination wasn’t far after all. It was still better to be over prepared than under, especially since she wasn’t quite sure what she’d be walking into. After she was satisfied with her ammo, she retrieved the stims from the kitchen and returned to the table and continued counting.

“What’s going on?” Charon’s marred fingers found their way to her hand and curled around it with a squeeze, halting their ministrations with finality.

His voice was uncharacteristically soft and she turned her eyes up to meet his foggy ones. They were wide and sharp with concern, a familiar sort of look that managed to break through her walls more times than she could count.

He just had a way of dragging the truth out of her, even when she really didn’t want to tell him. But over the last two years, he’d become her friend. Her constant. It became harder to keep things from him because he knew her so well, better than she knew herself.

That didn’t make telling him this any easier, though.

“I have to go back.” Donna said, barely above a whisper. “To the vault.”

“Why?”

“I picked up an emergency broadcast on my way back from the Citadel. It was Amata…” Donna cleared her throat, forcing the lump that’d risen back down. “She sounded desperate, Charon. She said something about the new Overseer and how the vault got worse after I left. I… I have to go back.”

Charon withdrew his hand so sharply Donna flinched.

“After what they did to you and your dad? You can’t be serious, Don.” His voice was gruffer now, thick with anger.

“I know, okay? I know,” she balled her fists and fixed her stare to somewhere over his shoulder. She couldn’t look at him right now. “But they were my friends once… my family. I can’t just abandon them.”

“Don’t give me that shit,” he snapped. “You don’t owe them anything. The last thing they deserve is you going there and cleaning up their mess for them, because it’s not on you.”

Donna unclenched her fingers with a hiss, looking at the crescent shaped marks her nails left in the meat of her palm. “Charon… I killed their last Overseer and half of their security. I have to rectify that.”

“Because they gave you no other choice,” he sniped, his gravelly voice vibrating off the tin walls of the shack. “I remember you telling me that they killed your friend from the clinic. How the Overseer turned on his own daughter. Do you really want to save those people?”

“They’re not all bad,” Donna conceded. “And regardless of what they’ve done, or what happened, I can’t just sit idly by and let them die down there.”

“What’s this really about?” He fixed his murky gray eyes onto her face, two points of glimmering shards of glass.

“Charon…”

“It’s Luca’s dad, isn’t it?”

Donna’s breath hitched in her throat.

Slicked back hair, as dark as the Capital wastes during a new moon, flittered across her mind. She could remember hot kisses being trailed down her throat and rough, hungry hands running along her thighs. The smell of pomade and cigarettes invaded her senses at the memory and she winced.

“Don’t.”

Charon let out a heavy sigh through the spot where his nose used to be. “You still love him.”

His reprimanding tone wasn’t much unlike the one her dad used to use and she frowned, feeling a crease form between her brows.

Did she still love him? Did she _ever_ love him? It wasn’t something she put much thought into. So much had happened since then. She didn’t have time to think about frivolous things like romance and love when tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed. Not when she had a laundry list of things to accomplish. What good did it serve to dwell?

Still…

It’d been two years since she left the vault.

It wasn’t long after her ascent that she discovered the last vestige of _him_ growing in her belly; a steady reminder of the comfort they took in one another. And every day following she couldn’t go a day without at least thinking of him.

Who wouldn’t? Luca had dazzling eyes in the shade of sapphire and dark, unruly hair that could barely be tamed with a brush. She saw _his_ face every time Luca threw a tantrum, or when he’d babble and shoot her a grin so familiar it made her heart clench. 

“I don’t know,” she bit back, harsher than she intended. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going regardless of what you have to say.”

“And what about Luca? Were you even going to ask if I was okay with watching him until you came back, or did you just assume?"

“Don’t be like that. You love Luca,” Donna huffed as she shoved the remainder of her supplies into her bag. “I mean, you’ve practically helped me raise him. You were there when I found out I was pregnant and when I gave birth. He’s your kid as much as mine at this point.”

“But he’s _not_ mine. He’s yours and that vault dweller’s.” Charon stood from the table. Something unreadable flashed across his features. “He’s not _my_ responsibility.”

Donna practically felt his words slap across her face and she jumped to her feet, feeling something hot roil in her gut. “We’re a family, Charon. How could you say that?”

“Don’t do that.” He held up a darkened hand and glowered, his eyes narrowing an imperceptible amount. “Don’t try to guilt me. You know it doesn’t work.”

“So what… that's it? You're forfeiting your help with him?”

“I didn’t say that, Don. You’re completely missing the point.” Charon pressed the balls of his hands into his eyes with a sigh. “I’m just saying you can’t dump him on me every time you want to go off and do something stupid.”

Donna moved around the table and closed the gap between them, placing a small hand on his arm. “I leave him with you because you’re the only one I trust. I know you’d die for him in a heartbeat, just like me.”

“And what if you die out there? What if one day you don’t come back?” Charon growled as he shrugged away from her hand. “Just hate being left here and not being able to do shit about it.”

Donna raked her fingers through her hair, trying push away the overwhelming feeling of guilt that thrummed between her ribs. It nipped at her skin and snaked a cold hand around the back of her neck and she swallowed. Hard.

With growing resolve she approached Charon again and threw her arms around his midsection, pulling him into a tight hug. She knew he wasn't a fan of physical affection and, if she was being frank, she wasn’t very fond of it either. But this felt like the only way for her to get her point across.

“I’ll come back, you know that. I always do.” Charon reluctantly returned her embrace and rested his disfigured cheek atop her head. “I’m sorry that I’ve used you as a scapegoat. Or that I’ve made you feel unimportant. You’re my only friend, Charon. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

“It’s okay, Don. I get it.” His voice rumbled through his chest. “I don’t support you returning to that vault but I know that once you get an idea in your head, it’s damn near impossible to talk you out of it.”

“I have to do this.”

They pulled apart and she looked up to him, forcing a tight-lipped smile. Charon opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by a shrill, high-pitched shrieking from the second story. Seemed like Luca finally woke up from his afternoon nap.

Charon moved to tend to the toddler when Donna grabbed his elbow and pulled him back. He threw her a quizzical look.

“I’ll get him, Charon. I have to say bye anyways.”

She patted him on the shoulder and ascended the staircase, the sounds of Luca’s crying growing louder with each step. She rounded the corner and entered their shared bedroom.

The room was fairly sparse, only having one dilapidated bed and refurbished dresser against the far wall. There was a trunk at the foot of the bed with neatly folded sheets and a forgotten piece of leather armor atop it.

She snagged one of the sheets and laid it upon her mattress and turned to her son, whose dark head was peeking out from the rim of his makeshift bassinet.

At the sight of her, his cries quieted down and his tiny, chubby hands reached upwards as he babbled incoherently. She reached into the bassinet and pulled him into her arms, brushing a few errant strands of hair out of his face. Only a little under a year and a half old and he already had more hair than she knew what to do with.

She placed him against the sheet on the mattress and unbuttoned his singlet, setting about changing his wet diaper. She tossed the dirtied cloth into the hamper and replaced it with a fresh one, buttoning him back up and bringing her to her chest. He let his forehead rest against her collarbone as she held him, finding herself swaying from one side to the other.

“I’m going to go away for a little while, _cucciolo_.” She placed a chaste kiss at his crown, her hand rubbing circles against his back. “I’ve told you about your dad, right?”

She pulled back a bit and he twisted his large, curious eyes up to her. God, they were so blue.

“I’m fixing to pay him a visit. Maybe tell him about you, eh? What do you think of that?” Luca snagged a piece of her hair in his inhumanly strong grip and she yelped. She freed her hair and she shook her head with an amused huff. “Yeah, I’m excited too.”

When she first found out she was pregnant she was, understandably, terrified.

The world above ground was decimated. In shambles. A hollow memory of what once was.

It had only been a month when she was given the news and by that time, she’d been shot and injured more times than she could count.

Around every corner was a looming threat. Super mutants. Ghouls. Centaurs. Raiders. Mirelurks. That was just a fraction of the dangers that populated this volatile new world. It was a gaping maw of misery and suffering that would chew you up and swallow you whole if you weren’t careful.

They were safe in Megaton, especially now that she dismantled the large bomb at its center. But she could only keep Luca safe for so long.

At some point he’d be too old to keep him tethered to this beaten down shack. He’ll want to leave, find his own way in this life. And if he was anything like her, she won’t be able to stop him. The thought alone caused her to clutch him a little tighter and she inhaled a sharp breath. How hypocritical would it be for her to try and tame a free spirit?

“I want you to be good for Charon, okay? There’s some Dandy apples in it for you.”

“You know he never listens, just like his mother.” A voice rasped from behind. “Besides, he’s too young for that sugary shit.”

Donna turned around to see her companion lingering in the doorway, his hands characteristically crossed over his chest. He’d found time to change, switching out his armor for a plain white shirt and dark fatigue pants. A dish towel hung over his shoulder and he opened his arms as he inched closer to them.

She couldn’t help the warmth that filled her at the sight. He looked so domestic. Who would’ve thought this is where they’d end up when she helped him two years ago.

With a nod she handed her son over, her palm lingering atop his head. “I won’t be gone too long.”

“Don’t make promises, Don. I know how it goes.” Charon grabbed a bag full of Luca’s things from the trunk at the edge of her bed, ignoring the items that toppled off of the lid. He slung the bag over his free shoulder. “I’m going to take the kid out for a walk.”

“Thank you, Charon.” Donna’s voice was small and wavered a bit. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.

To her surprise, Charon placed a gentle hand at the crook of her neck. His rough fingertips gripped into her skin but it wasn’t unpleasant. She found herself studying his face as he stared at her, her son balanced on his hip.

“Be smart. Remember, you’ve got people here that matter too.”

And with that he was gone, only the sound of the front door slamming to signify his departure.

Donna let her fingers ghost the spot that he had just touched before her hand fell limply to her side.

He hated being left behind. He was a free man now, had been for a while, yet he chose to stay at her side. She knew it wasn’t fair of her and at some point his generosity would wear so thin it’d break irreparably.

After she returned from the vault, things would be different. They had to be. Luca needed a stable home with a mom who didn’t disappear for months at a time. She was tired of being a hero, anyways. 

With a sigh, she descended the staircase and located her bag. After double checking the contents and feeling satisfied with what she decided to bring, she placed it near the front door and went to her armor case.

She donned a black jumpsuit and clasped pieces of combat armor over it. She knocked a few times against the breastplate out of habit and reached for her plasma rifle, slinging it over her back. A pistol came next and she strapped it to her thigh. Finally she reached for her machete and secured it to her other thigh and tucked a bowie knife into the holster at her ankle.

She always favored knives over guns, and she had a knack for hand-to-hand combat—which she can probably thank her childhood bully for. But guns were necessary when traversing the wastes. Better to get them afar than up close, even though she preferred the latter.

She gave a final look at the dilapidated tin walls of her shack, took in the sight of the dust particles dancing in front of the window, and clinked her boots against the metal floor.

There was an iron figure at her left, hanging on the wall near the door frame. A little wolf’s head that she discovered while scavenging for items to sell.

Her dad had always told her about _tocca ferro_ and, even though she knew it was superstitious nonsense, she gave the figure a light touch just in case.

“For good luck,” she muttered.

Without another pause she turned and left, heading towards the gates of Megaton. 

\---

Dust kicked up beneath her boots as she trudged along, trying to ignore the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun on her back. She ran her hand across her brow, brushing away the beads of sweat that threatened to trickle into her eyes.

She threw an idle look over her shoulders and scanned the skyline. She could lie and say she was keeping a lookout for hostiles but, in truth, she was looking for the imposing silhouette of Megaton.

It never got any easier leaving her son behind. She’d had him at an inopportune time in her life that hadn’t allowed her much room to just be a mother. And although this particular journey wasn’t necessary to the good of the Capital, it was important to her.

She had battled with whether or not she should go for days before deciding on a plan of action, but her sobering conversation with Charon piled on doubt after doubt. It made her question her true motive for returning to her former home. Some deep, dark alcove in the back of her mind knew that this was a selfish endeavor.

She did care about the welfare of those people in the vault. That hadn’t been a lie.

But getting to see Butch again was at the forefront of her thoughts. The idea of it roused an intense flurry of conflict. It swirled and hissed and buzzed inside of her skull like a broken generator. 

Would telling Butch about their son be selfish? After all, he might not be able to be a part of Luca’s life if he’s kept from leaving the vault. Or would it be more selfish to keep it from him? If she were him, would she even want to know at all?

Her hand drifted to the pocket of her jumpsuit where she kept a small picture of herself cradling Luca. It’d been taken by Dr. Li who had been there to assist with his birth. It wasn’t the most flattering image of herself she’d ever seen, but maybe, if she had to leave Butch behind, she could leave him this as well. It might do them both some good.

Donna strained her eyes, trying to see through the swirling dust clouds as the wind pushed against her.

The hillside that encased Vault 101 was just within her reach. She could see the jagged outline where the mountainside pierced the clear blue sky. Her pulse plucked away in her ears and she felt anxiety trail a path down her spine. Every nerve was alight and she pushed the lump of apprehension in her chest deep down to be dealt with later.

She could do this. It was now or never.

With fumbling steps she climbed up the mountain side, fingers clinging to rocks and boots sliding against the soil. After a few tumultuous moments, where she was sure she was going to slide backwards, she reached a plateau. She scrambled to the flat surface with bated breaths, willing herself to stand upright, trying to summon every ounce of strength she could.

Everything felt heavy and wrong, like she was about to willingly place her foot into a bear trap.

The sight of the rickety wooden door leading to the access tunnel was almost enough to make her turn tail and run. But instead she stood tall, straightening her back until she could feel her bones creak in protest. She pushed open the door and shuffled inside. It was dark save for the tiny rays of light coming through the wooden panels behind her and she squinted, flipping on the light from her pip-boy.

Within a few strides she found herself at the end of the tunnel. Her gaze twisted upward, coming face to face with the large steel menace known as the vault door. It was even more intimidating than she remembered.

She hastily found the outer panel and activated the switch, entering Amata’s password, causing the door to spark to life. It whined as the gears whirled and it rolled open, accompanied by an overwhelmingly loud alarm, revealing the inner foyer.

With a trembling breath, she stepped inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tocca ferro: to touch iron, similar to the saying "knock on wood!" A way to ward off bad luck.  
> *cucciolo: puppy, a term of endearment.


	2. You Want a Battle?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Thanks for waiting y'all. I so appreciate the feedback I've received thus far! I had fun writing this chapter and I hope you guys have just as much fun reading it.

**2268  
The Vault  
**  
“Did you finish your project for class?” A small voice whispered against the shell of her ear.

Donna looked down at the diorama clutched between small fingers. It had been hastily glued together the night before; pieced together with ragged chunks of cardboard and stiff paper. Procrastinator she may be, but she put her all into it and she was rather proud of what she’d created.

She glanced up to Amata, who had her own project balanced carefully in her hands, and smiled sheepishly. 

“Just barely.” Donna turned the open face of the box to show her friend. “I know it was supposed to be about the Overseer but I put my daddy in there too.”

Amata gave her a supportive bump against her shoulder. “Wow that looks _just_ like your dad.”

Donna giggled. “It took forever to make his hair. He has a lot of it.”

“You even drew on his grumpy face!” Amata giggled and gestured towards the classroom. “Ready to go in?”

She looked over her friend’s shoulder and spied their teacher, who was sitting at his desk and fiddling with some papers. From the looks of it, the class was still fairly empty, seeing as she and Amata made it a habit to arrive earlier than the others.

Donna moved to follow her when she noticed that the cardboard figure of her dad had started to wiggle loose. Immediately she stilled, worried that one wrong step would undo all of her hard work. She wanted this to survive _at least_ until she could show it to her dad after his shift. He’d been in the clinic all night and she was fast asleep by the time he came home and gone again when she’d left for class.

Halted footsteps caught Amata’s attention and she turned around. “You okay?”

“Uh… yeah. Just go ahead, I have to fix something real quick.”

“Need a hand?”

“Nah, I have some glue in my locker. It’ll be fast, don’t worry.”

Amata paused for a fraction before dipping her head. “Okay! I’ll make sure no one messes with our desks.”

They exchanged a pointed look; a silent understanding of exactly _who_ Amata was referring to. For the last few days in a row, Donna had found a few unpleasant surprises inside her desk.

First was a crude doodle of herself—all wild hair and dripping fangs, with the nickname ‘ _Donna Flossy_ ’ scribbled across it.

The second prank came in the form of a simple aerosol can hooked up to a rather impressive pressure system comprised of paperclips and duct tape. That time, when she’d opened her desk, a stream of hairspray had exploded and doused her and her surrounding classmates in a thick coat of sticky product.

She found herself awake at night trying to figure out how Butch pulled that one off.

The last one involved both her and Amata. They’d arrived early, as usual, only to realize every single item within their desks had been super glued to the wood. It’d taken half of the morning to dislodge the various pencils, pens, and workbooks before class resumed normally.

Mr. Brotch had _not_ happy about the wasting of classroom supplies.

She watched Amata’s dark ponytail bob along until it disappeared under the doorway to the classroom, hoping there’d be no unexpected surprises today.

Then, with all the grace she could muster, she awkwardly shuffled to her locker and placed her project at her feet, setting it down like it was as fragile as glass. She put in the combination for the lock and swung it open, pushing aside piles of loose papers and sketchbooks until her eyes fell onto the tiny white bottle of glue.

With deft fingers, she crouched over her project and set about gluing the small figure of her dad back in place, blowing on it here and there to speed up the drying process.

“Hey, nosebleed! Whatcha got there?”

Every cell in her body went cold at the sound of that voice. Her fingers froze their work and her gaze darted down the hallway, spying a rather smug looking Butch as he inched closer. Of course, this was just her luck.

“Leave me alone, Butch.”

To no surprise, he didn’t listen. Instead, he approached her flank and peered over her shoulder. She tried to shield him from the precious thing between her fingers but it was of no use. 

“No way! You actually did that stupid project _Mr. Crotch_ assigned us?” A hiss escaped through his teeth; a condescending sound. “Nerd.”

“Buzz off,” Donna bit back. “Not my fault you’re too stupid to understand the homework he gives us. I bet you thought a diorama was a kind of dinosaur.”

“I’m not stupid!”

“Really? Okay. Spell diorama.”

“Psh, easy.” He brought his face close to hers. “N-O-S-E-B-L-E-E-D.”

Donna’s scowl deepened and she stood.

Usually she could handle Butch, difficult as it may be. She was pretty decent at pushing down all the hurt and confusion. Maybe even mastered ignoring him. But today was different. There was this twisting knot right beneath her ribs that tightened and trembled from strain, threatening to snap.

She stared into his sneering visage, hands trembling and teeth grinding. All it took was him opening his mouth and sticking out his gross tongue for her to be pushed over the edge. With some momentum, embarrassment and frustration fueling her, she brought her hands up and she lunged forward. 

The flats of her palms connected with Butch's shoulders. Hard. He took a few staggering steps back before he was on her, a hand twisted into the fabric of her vault suit.

“You’re so annoying!” Donna spat as he pushed her into the lockers. 

“Takes one to know one!”

“That doesn’t even make sense!” There was a tense moment where she tried to pull away but his hold on her was tight. “ _What is your problem_?”

“ _You’re_ my problem.” Butch retorted, his eyes dark. “You think you’re so much better than me, you and that goody-two-shoes Princess.”

Amata. That was his nickname for Amata.

Donna felt a surge of anger as Butch pulled her back only to slam her into the lockers again. The back of her head bounced off of the steel and she yelped. There was a harsh bark of laughter, loud and sarcastic. 

“Maybe because we _are_ better than you,” she spat again, squinting through the pain in her skull. "Not like that's hard to accomplish, you... you half-wit!"

Silence. All she heard was the sound of her own breathing as it pulled in and raggedly escaped. They never broke eye contact and she watched as his face twisted into something she'd never seen before. Underneath his crumpled expression was a brief flash of something akin to sadness. 

Butch seemed to recover quickly, his expression slipping into something a little more schooled. But Donna felt immediate regret, not really understanding the full gravity of what she said or why it'd hit him so hard. 

His hand trembled where it was knotted into her suit, his other hand coming up to form a ball as his fingers clenched and unclenched. He sucked in a quick breath and she braced herself for a pop to the nose. More silenced and bated breath.

Instead of a punch, he released his hold.

“Butch… I-- I didn't mean...”

The apology died in her throat as he reached down and scooped up her diorama.

Everything seemed to slow and she watched helplessly as he raised the project over his head. She leapt forward and tried to stop him. She snagged his sleeve and yanked his arm, begging for him to put it down, jumping up to pull it from his grasp.

But it was no use. A cruel grin spread across his face as he snickered at her attempts, pulling it farther from her reach each time. With one quick move, he threw the diorama hard against the floor and stomped on it for good measure.

Donna blinked a few times and stared at the flattened material of her project, eyes locking on to the small paper face of her dad as he glared upward at the ceiling. A weird strangled noise escaped the back of her throat and she dropped to her knees, running shaky fingertips over a boot print in the cardboard.

It was completely ruined. No amount of glue could fix this.

“Who’s better now, _Flossy_?” Butch’s voice seemed far away now, though she could still see him in her peripherals.

Her vision began to blur as tears welled at the corner of her eyes and she brought up the heel of her palm to angrily brush at her cheek. That insistent, angry feeling was stirring within her once more. It licked down her spine and thrummed in her ears until everything in her mind went eerily still.

She stood back up and rounded on her bully, whose satisfied smirk slid from his face. 

A crack sounded in the hallway as her fist connected with his jaw.

Sharp, stinging pain ran up the length of her arm but she ignored it, bringing her hand down to hit him again—this time catching him on the side of the head.

“ _I hate you!_ ” She yelled through tears, raw and scratchy. 

Butch reeled as she punched him again and again, putting his arms up to block her attacks. She had him backed up against the wall when he managed to grab hold of her wrists and push her backwards.

“It was just a stupid art project, nosebleed!” Butch breathed. Blood trickled from a gash along his hairline and a purple bruise had already started to form along his jaw. “You can make another one!”

“It’s not the same!” Donna yelled. 

She was readying herself for another fight when something tightened around her chest and lifted her away. Mr. Brotch’s concerned face was looming over her. He’d managed to put a good five feet between her and her now welt-covered bully, who was glaring daggers in her direction.

“What in the world is going on here?”

Donna’s face burned as tears continued to trail down her cheeks.

Her voice was small and hoarse when she replied, “He destroyed my diorama.”

Their teacher’s eyes traveled to the pathetic heap of cardboard on the floor and then over to Butch. “Mister DeLoria, did you do this?”

“No way! I just bumped into her and she dropped it.” Butch lied through his teeth. “That’s all! I swear!”

“That’s not true!” Donna tried to wiggle out of her teacher’s grasp. “He threw it on the floor and he stomped on it!”

Butch’s face was red now. “You’re a liar! She just doesn’t like me and wants to get me in trouble.”

“Jerk!” Donna screamed back.

“Geek!”

“Enough!” Mr. Brotch’s barked. “Miss Rossi, I will let you go if you promise me to not hit him again.”

Donna couldn’t help the grimace that twisted her face and she nodded mutely. He seemed to pause a fraction, studying her face, before accepting that she was no longer a threat to her classmate. The pressure released from her chest and she felt her legs crumple beneath her, lowering herself to the floor with a small whimper.

The skin of her knuckles were red and swollen and she winced when she tried to move her fingers.

“Mister DeLoria,” Mr. Brotch started, taking a few reluctant steps towards the boy in question, “I want you to go to the clinic and get that cut on your head addressed by Dr. Rossi.”

“But--”

“Now.” His tone left no room for argument. “Your absence from class this morning will not be held against you, but you _will_ be in my office by the end of the day to discuss what’s happened here. Understood?”

Butch sneered but did as he was told, turning heel to march off in the direction of the clinic. Her teacher watched him go before returning to her, kneeling so they were at eye level.

“Donna… hitting someone? This is very unlike you.”

She refused to meet his gaze.

“Talk to me, Donna. Tell me what happened.”

“I already told you,” she spoke slowly, aware of the break in her voice. “He… he took my diorama and he stomped on it.”

“And before that?” His approach was tentative at best and he placed a hand on her shoulder, an attempt at comfort. “What started this?”

Donna rubbed her hand across her nose and sniffed. “Nothing, Mr. Brotch. He always does stuff like this.”

An easy half-truth.

Sure, Butch was a constant terror in her life, but this time she knew it was her fault for antagonizing him. She shoved him first. She hit him when she could've just walked away. Guilt nipped at her skin and she swallowed around the ball that formed in her throat.

A sigh escaped through Mr. Brotch’s nose. “I know Butch makes things hard for you, but you have to be the bigger person. Not just once, or twice, but every time. You’re a good kid, smart. Thoughtful. You work hard. He can’t take that away from you. Okay?”

Another sniffle escaped her and she fought back tears again. “O-okay.”

“I expect you in my office at the end of the day as well, Miss Rossi.”

She just nodded as he helped her up.

The rest of the day went by quickly and she managed to ignore the barrage of questions Amata and a few other classmates pelted her with.

Butch’s friends, Wally and Paul, spent their time in class hitting the back of her head with spitballs and whispering insults any time their teacher was out of reach. They weren’t aware of what happened but they probably assumed Butch’s absence for half the day had something to do with her.

Especially when Butch came in after lunch, a white gauze pad taped to his head, and sat directly behind her. Donna squirmed with discomfort, trying to keep her head down for the most part, but she could feel his intense gaze on the back of her head.

Every now and then she’d hear the word ‘snitch’ disguised as a well-timed cough to the hand and the others would snicker.

But then the time came for both she and Butch to be held after the final bell.

She sat with her hands neatly folded in her lap, finding it hard to move them as bruising had started to form along her knuckles. Butch sat in a chair next to her, fussing with impatience and tossing a pencil into the air, trying to get it to stick to the ceiling.

Mr. Brotch took a moment to excuse himself and Butch turned to her the moment the doors to the classroom slid closed.

“Your dad had to put stitches in my head,” he stated, pointing to the gauze.

“Did it hurt?” Donna asked politely.

“Yeah, it did.”

“Good.”

She swiveled her head in his direction, keeping her expression aloof and distant. Butch’s mouth turned downward at her response and just shook his head.

It was quiet for a beat before Donna decided to ask something.

“Why do you tease me so much, Butch? What did I ever do to you?”

Butch’s face twisted as if he tasted something sour. There was a moment where he seemed to contemplate how he’d respond, but right as he opened his mouth the doors to the classroom slid open once more.

In walked Mr. Brotch with both her dad and Ms. DeLoria in tow. A cold sensation crept up her back and nervousness bloomed in her belly at the sight of her dad, whose arms were crossed over his chest in a disapproving fashion.

Ms. DeLoria approached her son on wobbly legs, pulling his head to her chest with the utmost affection and planting a sloppy kiss on his forehead.

“Oh! My poor Butchie. What happened to your head, sweetheart?”

“Nothing, ma.” Butch’s cheeks grew red as he pushed her away. “It’s nothing.”

His mom ruffled his hair before standing behind him, placing two well-manicured hands on his shoulders. Her dad took his time, walking over slowly, his dark eyes never leaving Butch. Donna knew her dad wasn’t a fan of Butch but he’d always told her to treat him kindly, because ‘ _we never know what’s going on in someone’s life_.’

There was scolding waiting for her, it was written all over his face.

“Ms. DeLoria, Dr. Rossi.” Mr. Brotch leaned against his desk and gestured to his students. “I’m sure you’re aware of why I asked you here today.”

“I’m not,” Ms. DeLoria chimed in. “What happened to Butchie? Why is he hurt?”

“Well.” Mr. Brotch cleared his throat. “Before first bell, I caught Donna and Butch engaged in a scuffle in the hallway. It seems that Butch, at some point, had decided to destroy Donna’s art project.”

“Is this true, son?” Her dad finally spoke up, an edge to his tone.

Butch just crossed his arms over his chest, a self-soothing gesture, and looked away. His mom’s hand gripped tighter onto his shoulders, the fabric of his vault suit twisting over her fingers.

“That’s just not possible.” Ms. DeLoria’s voice was almost indignant. “He would never do that to someone. He’s a good boy.”

“Ellen,” her dad spoke informally. “This isn't a one time occurrence. She’s had to defend herself from Butch on numerous occasions, lord knows I’ve seen the aftermath. Maybe if you paid more attention to your son at home…”

“I pay him plenty attention,” the woman interrupted. “How do we know it’s not _your_ kid who’s causing all this trouble?”

“This is my first time being called to the teacher’s office for any type of disciplinary action. How often have you been here, Ellen?”

She took a moment to pat her freshly curled hair. “I don’t see why that matters.”

Her dad pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “ _Un perditempo_.”

“What did you say?” Ms. DeLoria let go of her son and took a step towards her dad. She threw a scalding look in Donna’s direction. “What did he call me?”

“Uh…” _A time-waster_. “I don’t know.”

The older woman huffed and turned to their teacher. “You’re just going to stand there and let him insult me in another language?”

“I can insult you in English as well, if that suits you better.” Her dad replied.

“Enough,” Mr. Brotch interceded. “I expect this kind of behavior out of the children, but not you two. The fact of the matter is that Butch destroyed Donna’s project and that Donna retaliated using violence. These things are not taught here in my classroom, but at home.”

“I can assure you, Mr. Brotch, that we do not condone violence in my household. If anything, it is openly discouraged. I’ve told Donna to defer to using her words in these instances,” he placed a consoling hand atop Donna’s dark blonde head. “But I know my daughter and she would not hurt anyone unless it was in self-defense.”

“Then how do you explain this?” Ms. DeLoria took Butch’s chin and turned his head to show off the gauze. “Your kid doesn’t even have a scratch on her. This was _not_ in self-defense, it was an attack on my poor boy.”

Mr. Brotch raised his hand to silence her.

“I’m not here to take sides, I'm just here to supply you with the facts. I called you in here to relay to both of you what transpired in the early hours and,” his eyes darted to her and Butch, “that if this happens again, they will be suspended.”

Donna visibly swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Suspensions were things that happened to the bad kids not _her_. She had never been in trouble with any authority figures, outside of a reprimanding talking-to from her dad from time to time.

“Before they leave, I want them to apologize to one another,” their teacher continued. “You guys don’t have to be friends or even like each other, but you need to learn to be civil about things.”

Her dad looked down at her expectantly, gesturing her for do as she was asked. Donna had no issue in obliging.

“I’m sorry, Butch.” She met Butch's gaze. “I shouldn’t have hit you. Or called you stupid.”

“It’s whatever,” Butch brushed off. His mom gave him a sharp nudge and he rolled his eyes with a groan. “I’m sorry for destroying your dumb art thing.”

“There,” Mr. Brotch clapped his hands. “I hope the next time I see you all in my office, it’ll be under better circumstances.”

Her dad gave a curt nod and ushered her to her feet. “Come on, _piccolina_. Let’s go.”

Donna threw an apologetic look at Butch, hoping he could read the sincere regret in her eyes. There was a moment, almost so fast that it almost didn’t register, where his regret mirrored her own. It was just like hours before, when he’d let his sadness slip through the cracks in his façade.

The guilt behind her sternum swelled as her dad pulled her into the hallway.

He had been quiet on the walk back, making sure to stay a few paces ahead of her. The way his shoulders slumped and his head hung low made all the feelings in her stomach worse, and a few times she thought she was going to throw up.

Their quarters were dark and cold as they entered. The fluorescent lighting flickered for a few moments before casting the room in an obnoxious brightness. Donna listened to the hum in the walls as she found a seat at the kitchen table, wondering when the scolding from her dad would come.

Her dad fiddled with something in the kitchen for a moment before sitting at the table beside her, a cup of steaming coffee in hand. He ran his fingers through his salt and pepper hair before a deep sigh escaped him and he fixed her with a look.

“We don’t hit people, Donna.” A warm hand was placed atop her own. He ran a thumb over her bruised knuckles. “I’ve seen Butch in the clinic more times than you can count, but I never thought it’d be _my child_ that would be responsible for putting him there.”

“I’m sorry.” She murmured.

There was a sort of melancholy that furrowed his brows. “I’m not mad at you, I’m just… frustrated. Sometimes it feels like I can’t help you or protect you, hard as I try.”

"I hit him first." Donna let out a shaky breath. It wasn’t anything to do with her dad’s perceived shortcomings, he had to know that. “I called him stupid and I hit him. It was my fault.”

“I figured,” his grip on her hand tightened. “But I know it’s only because you’re tired of being hurt. There’s not a malicious bone in your body.”

Donna doubted his words. If there wasn't a malicious bone in her body as her dad suggested, then wouldn't she have simply walked? A good person wouldn't hurt someone else... right? She assumed her dad was just trying to make her feel better, not that his words had any truth behind them.

“Besides, I think he knows he messed up, _cucciola_.”

“Really?”

“Yep. He was pouting the entire time I stitched him up,” he chuckled softly. “I’ve never seen him do that before. He usually argues with me every step of the way.”

Donna tried to smile but her face felt tight.

“Next time this happens, I want you to be nice to him. Even if he makes you so mad that you want to scream.”

He’d told her that before but it was far easier said than done. Donna wondered aloud, “Why?”

“Well…” he paused. His eyes looked upward as if the words would materialize above him. “Butch’s mom… she’s, uh… sick, honey. And when someone you love is sick it makes you act out, sometimes in ways you might not even realize are hurtful.”

“She didn’t look sick." There was a pause. "Why didn’t he just tell me?”

“He probably doesn’t want anyone to know. I’m only telling you now so you’ll have a better understanding of why he acts this way.”

“So I don’t tell him that I’m sorry his mom is sick?”

A dry laugh escaped his throat before he shook his head vehemently. “No, no. No. Don’t mention his mom but maybe... I don’t know, give him a compliment?”

“Butch is…” she struggled to put a word to it. “Weird. I don’t think he’d like me complimenting him.”

“Well, guess we’ll find out won’t we?” He withdrew his hand and stood, taking a slow sip of his beverage. “Now, it’s getting late. Finish up whatever homework you have and get to bed. I’ll come say goodnight before I head back to work.”

“Do you have to go?”

He looped one arm over her shoulder and pulled her into a side hug. “I have a lot I need to get done. A doctor’s job is never ending.”

"I understand." She tried to hide her disappointment.

After a few moments, she rose to her feet and ambled over to the couch where she'd haphazardly tossed her text books.

It was then that the doorbell rang and she nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden sound. Footsteps could be heard echoing down the hallway and she looked back to her dad, who was paused mid-step half way across the living room.

Tentatively, she raised her hand to the access panel and went to disengage the lock when her dad intervened.

“Let me. After today’s events, who knows what’s waiting for us out there.”

Donna gulped and stepped back, making sure to stand behind her dad. She heard the gears churn as the door slid open and clenched her eyes shut. 

“Oh,” she heard her dad breathe.

“What is it?” Her eyes clenched tighter and she gripped onto his lab coat. “Is it a dead bug?”

“Donna.” She was suddenly pushed to the open doorway. “Open your eyes, it’s okay.”

Slowly she cracked one eye open, cautiously looking around the hallway before settling on something at her feet.

There, in all its cardboard glory, sat her diorama.

Only now it’d been crudely pieced back together with scotch tape and what appeared to be sparkly glue-- still wet.

Slowly, as if worried it was going to explode somehow, Donna knelt down and picked up her refurbished art project. Unsteady hands worked over each piece that had been salvaged and she stared in quiet awe.

It was far from perfect but it wasn’t bad either. Even the boot print had been worked into the piece, now a backdrop for one of the windows in the Overseer’s office.

As she rotated the diorama to get a better look at its inner workings, a small piece of notebook paper flittered to the ground. She threw an incredulous look to her dad who simply shrugged and took the art project from her. After a few moments of hesitation, she snagged the piece of paper and turned it over.

In large, child-like letters, the words _‘Sorry nosebleed’_ were scribbled with marker. 


	3. The House That Built Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW! Sorry y'all. Writer's block has had me in its grip lately. I've been trying to stay a few chapters ahead but I hit a wall in terms of plot direction. I decided to go a little AU with some details, as some of you might have noticed by the extended two year gap with the return to the vault. I changed the background of Allen Mack a bit as well, so just a heads up that it was intentional. 
> 
> Thank you for all of your reviews and kudos-- they keep me going!

**2279**  
  
The vault was in disarray as she entered through the main lobby.

“Stop right there! I don’t know how you got in here but--”

Donna jumped into action and swiveled her plasma rifle from around her back, taking aim at the darkly clad figure that approached her. In return the man brandished his own weapon, which happened to be a small 10 mm pistol, and pointed the barrel in her direction. She hovered in the doorway of the foyer, one boot planted on either side, staring down the sites.

A little red dot refracted in the light of the figure’s helmet and she flicked off the safety.

But to her surprise, the steady hand holding the opposing gun faltered a fraction. “Wait, hold on… it’s you!”

She kept the plasma rifle up, taking a step back as the man attempted to close the gap between them.

“Stay where you are!” She barked, making sure to use the most intimidating voice she could muster. “The sun and radiation must’ve fried my brain because you know me, but I’m afraid I don’t remember you.”

“Man, time may have passed but your temper hasn’t changed a bit. You really don’t remember me?” He turned up the protective glass of his riot gear and hastily holstered his weapon. “I’m Herman. Freddie’s dad?”

The older man threw her a reluctant smile and the memories came flooding back, barely knocking her over from the force of it.

“Holy shit. Officer Gomez?” 

The man clapped enthusiastically in response.

“Little Donna Rossi! As I live and breathe,” the older man threw her another wide grin, one that made the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes more apparent. “I barely recognized you with all that dust and grime from out there.”

“Uh…” she cleared her throat, urging her adrenaline to subside. “Yeah, two years out in the wastes will do that to you.”

“Guess that explains how you got that door open. You’ve got more experience with it than most everyone down here combined,” Gomez chuckled. “Oh… uh, do you mind?”

Gomez gestured to her and it took her a moment to realize that her plasma rifle was still aimed at his head. She threw him a sheepish look as she turned the safety back on and retired the rifle to its position against her back. Donna likened herself to someone who was decent at reading a room and she sensed no danger coming from the man adjacent. Still, she let her fingertips ghost the hilt of her machete, just in case.

“Sorry, Officer Gomez.”

The man waved dismissively as he strode over. He seemed genuinely glad to see her. “Hey, no worries kid. I bet those years out there have made you a bit squirrely.”

“You can say that again. Look, I know it seems kind of out of the blue, but I need to speak to Amata. It’s urgent.”

“Amata? Whatever for?”

“I received her message,” Donna started, opening up her pip-boy to show him the transmission frequency. “She said something about an emergency and that I needed to return as soon as possible.”

“A message?” Officer Gomez’s demeanor quickly changed as his sunny mood practically slid from his face. “Not to scare you, but you better keep that information under your hat. She could get in real trouble if people find out she sent that. So could I, for talking to you now.”

“Get in trouble?” Donna fumbled with her pip-boy and let out a wry laugh. “I guess things didn’t change _that_ much around here.”

“I’m serious, Donna.”

The icy tone in his voice was enough to drag her attention away from the screen and she fixed her gaze on him. A tight frown pulled at his pursed lips and he briefly looked away, throwing a concerned look over his shoulder before continuing.

“This place is not what you remember. And I’m sorry to say but…” he brought his gloved hand to his face in contemplation, “if you’re back, there’s going to be trouble with some folks. And if Amata’s wrapped up in it, there will be trouble for her too.”

“Jesus… you're serious,” Donna muttered. A deeply unsettling feeling sank in the pit of her gut. “What the hell's happened since I’ve been gone?”

“Everything went crazy, is what happened. Your dad opened that door, bugs started attacking, and people started going crazy. When the smoke cleared, there were a lot of casualties and not many answers.” There was an edge to his words; cold and sharp. “Didn’t help that our only doctor had just left, either.”

Donna nearly recoiled from the underlying accusation. She should feel indignation, or slighted, by what he was saying but instead all she felt was overwhelming grief. So much death. There was blood on her hands and on her father’s as well. She knew a few of those casualties were of her own doing, whether Gomez acknowledged it or not. 

When her father fled, she knew he wouldn’t have imagined that he’d leave such disaster in his wake. The man she knew, the father she loved, would never intentionally endanger people. But the road to hell is paved with good intentions. 

Knowing what she does now, she understands why he left her behind: he thought she’d be better off. Just as he thought he could slip out of the vault with no lasting repercussions. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him what truly transpired in his absence. One less failure to plague his mind before he died.

The world around her blurred for a moment and she closed her eyes.

“If my dad were still alive, he’d be horrified to hear all of that.”

Officer Gomez was quiet now. She could feel the air thicken between them and she wanted nothing more than to push past him and run. But a heavy hand on her shoulder pulled her back to reality and she nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden contact.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Donna.” All previous traces of animosity had evaporated. Instead, a deep sadness in his gaze reflected her own. “Regardless of how things turned out down here, James was a good friend. I always figured he’d do well out there.”

“He did, for a while.” She tried to control the break in her voice. “All good things…”

“You know… plenty of people down here started thinking he had the right idea. He usually did. If it was safe outside, why stay down here forever?” Gomez’s hand fell limply to his side.

“Really? After everything, those people… they agreed with my dad?”

“Yep. The Overseer, well the _new_ Overseer, didn’t like that one bit though. So he started cracking down on that kind of thinking. Guess he didn’t count on you coming back.”

“Who’s the new Overseer?” Donna queried.

“Allen Mack.”

Donna blinked slowly, waiting for him to clap her back and bellow ‘ _just kidding!_ ’ But he simply stared at her, a curious crease forming between his brows.

“Aw, hell.” A low whistle escaped her lips and she shook her head in disbelief. “That tyrant? What, was torturing the vault as a member of security not enough fun for him?”

Officer Gomez shifted awkwardly.

“You know, he really stepped up during the crisis. Saved a lot of lives.”

“You mean… he did his job. What he was _literally_ assigned to do.” Donna watched Gomez throw another paranoid glance over his shoulder. “I hardly see how that makes him a hero.”

“I’m not saying he’s a hero. But it was what our people needed at the time. Someone to look to for guidance.”

Donna pursed her lips knowing full well _she_ was the reason they leaned on that rabid molerat at all. The only way this situation would be worse was if Stevie ended up the Overseer.

“And how’d that turn out?”

“Well…” he cleared his throat. “Just when some of us hoped he might open the doors for good, he declared martial law and said the place would stay sealed off forever.”

“That sounds more like the Mack I remember.” Donna took a deep breath and steadied herself. “So, what now?”

“I probably ought to put you under arrest and take you in to the Overseer, but frankly, I know better than to try that.” He smiled softly. “Meanwhile, some of your old friends think opening the vault is a good idea.”

“Friends.” She could laugh. “That’s rich.”

“Hey now, don’t talk like that. I know you guys didn’t always get along, but you had friends here. You were always good to my son and I won’t forget that, neither will he.” There was a pause where he seemed to carefully choose his words. “I bet those rebels would love to have a word with you. Now, more than ever.”

“So Amata got me here in order to join in on their little rebellion? That’s hard to believe,” Donna fully stepped into the foyer now and Officer Gomez moved back, giving her space. “She never was one to break the rules.”

“People change when their lives are in shambles. You’d be surprised at the lengths people will go to when they’re pushed to their limit,” the officer replied. “Now, if you want, you can walk away as if you were never here. Out of respect for your dad, I won’t even tell anyone I saw you.”

“I appreciate that, Officer Gomez. But I’ve come this far and I might as well go and see what I can do about all of this.”

“Well, okay.” He let out a long breath and stepped aside, gesturing to a corridor at his side. “Just be careful down there. The vault’s changed, I tell you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

There was a beat before Officer Gomez proposed an idea.

“Do you want me to escort you? Not saying you can’t handle yourself but it might be safer.”

Donna tapped her chin and contemplated his offer. If the vault was as hostile as he said it was, it might be best for her to have a mediator, lest she end up hurting anyone. It took no stretch of the imagination to picture how the remaining residents must feel about her now.

So she simply shrugged. “Very well.”

Officer Gomez led her through the familiar, yet empty, tunnels of her former haunt. Every twist and turn revealed new, devastating changes. Bullet holes littered the walls and she fleetingly touched one, remembering the night she’d barely escaped with her life. She stepped over a few suspicious rust stains on the metal grating beneath her feet and tried not to think too long on it.

Tables that’d been flipped over as makeshift barricades remained on their sides, papers strewn about haphazardly, and she wondered why nobody had bothered to repair or clean anything the last two years. It looked like a war zone; akin to a scene she’d stumble upon during an excursion in the ruins of DC.

But worst of all, she felt out of place-- like an invader in foreign territory. What was once her childhood home now resembled a bereft skeleton of something long since dead. She wasn't quite sure what she expected to feel reentering the vault, but she hadn't anticipated this.

Officer Gomez was talking to her but it was so hard to hear him over the blood rushing in her ears. Everything was wrong. She wiped her perspiring palms against the plating of her armor.

They entered the atrium in clear view of the Overseer’s office; the flickering signs on either side of the observation window defaced with spray paint. She spied a silhouette with a familiar baseball cap hovering behind the glass and quickly looked away, as if he’d somehow sense her and bust through the wall like a Grognak villain.

It wasn’t until they reached the lower level of the apartments that her escort seemed to pause. She’d been distracted by all the sealed doors and seemingly barren quarters and kept walking a few paces before she noticed.

She turned to Officer Gomez and cocked her head. “Why’d you stop?”

“I’m afraid this is as far as I can take you, Donna.”

“I see,” she hummed. Dark eyes traveled the length of the corridor before settling back on him. “I haven’t seen any danger so far, aside from the giant holes in the walls. Maybe a few tables that could be tripped over if someone wasn’t paying attention.”

“I took you through the less populated areas. Better to be safe than sorry.”

“Much appreciated.”

The man simply nodded, flipping his visor back down. “The rebels are holed up in your dad’s old clinic. A bit ironic if you ask me.”

“One of the few places I can find in this underground lunchbox with my eyes closed.”

That got a dry chuckle out of him. “Well… good luck, kid.”

With one final tip of his helmet, Officer Gomez turned on his heel to depart. She watched the back of his riot armor until he disappeared, feeling a bit unsure of herself. It was far more jarring being back here than she’d anticipated.

Every doorway, every room, even the dented lockers harbored memories of a life that didn’t quite seem like hers anymore.

And with her escort gone, the realization that she was very much alone settled on her shoulders. They hadn’t run into a single soul thus far and the anticipation of seeing a certain former Tunnel Snake was raising her blood pressure.

At least with Officer Gomez at her side, it would make the situation a little less awkward. She could work with a third party, maybe even throw in some jokes to lighten the mood. But alone? Well, dealing with Butch alone was always a different story.

She took a left and rounded into the stairwell. For a moment she thought she saw a figure disappear behind a doorway. She stopped in wait, but when no one appeared she brushed it off as just seeing things. 

It wasn’t long before she found the clinic. Her stride was unsteady as the clinking of her boots echoed around her. The door was open, much to her surprise, and she could hear the low murmur of conversation from within. She placed her still perspiring palm against the metal of the doorway. Air from filtration system blew against hot skin and she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

A steady voice flittered into the hallway and Donna closed her eyes, remembering the last time she’d heard _that_ voice in person.

Amata had been hunched over the body of her father, her screams barely audible over the blaring alarms, so high and shrill that it made Donna’s skin crawl. It was the pure, agonizing sound of loss that hung low in the belly and pressed against the inside of your chest.

She never knew the extent of that feeling until she’d watch her own father die; helpless as she banged against the murky glass between them.

When the keening died down, Amata had turned to her, eyes lined with betrayal and face spattered with blood, and begged Donna to leave.

It was a moment she replayed in her mind every day.

Alfonse had been a horrible, brutally selfish man… but he loved his daughter in his own way. And Donna had taken that away from her, no matter how justified her actions had been.

It was why she’d known coming on Amata’s behest was imperative, because she was sure the woman wouldn’t want to see her again unless it was absolutely necessary. She tilted her chin upward and squared her shoulders and entered the clinic.

The scene before her was worse than what’d she seen in the vault so far. Tarnished sleeping bags were pushed against the far walls, lined with various food wrappers and empty cans. Only half of the lights were in working order and the ones that were on seemed to flicker every few seconds. The door to the surgical suite was ajar and Donna spied a bit of dried blood on the tile, the sound of a whirring mechanical humming behind it.

It looked like the slums on the surface. Places barely made livable, used only out of desperation and bone-weary exhaustion.

Amata was positioned in the middle of the clinic and was engaged in a rather heated discussion with Christine Kendall. They hadn’t noticed her arrival and she took the moment to cross her arms, pressing her back against the cool steel of the wall.

“I understand your feelings, Christine. But it’s too much to ask for. What would you have me do about it?”

“I already told you what to do about it!”

“Look, it was hard enough for me to beg for her help, and now you want me to send out a message for her to bring you _magazines_?”

“It’s so boring down here, Amata. I can only read the same magazines over and over again.”

“I’m sorry struggling to survive has been so tedious for you.” Amata paused. “You’ve tried the library?”

“Of course I’ve tried the library, do you think I’m stupid? There’s nothing in there worthwhile.” Christine whined. “There has to be something she can bring back from the surface.”

“Sorry, Christine.” Donna cut through their bickering. “Most of the reading material above is worthless too. Nuclear fire and decay and all that.”

Both of the women turned to their visitor and froze.

“Oh my god…” Amata’s voice disappeared for a moment before she found it again. “You heard my message and... and you actually _came back?_ ”

Donna knocked a fist against the plating of her armor, indulging the old habit, before pacing over.

Her childhood friend’s eyes were wide and round with surprise, her forehead bursting into faint wrinkles as her brows lifted. A sharp inhale of breath escaped her parted lips before she dismissed Christine. The Kendall girl paused for a moment and let a hand fall encouragingly against Amata’s shoulder, whispering something in her ear. Donna watched Christine’s dark head disappear into the hallway, her gaze remaining fixated on the floor.

Donna turned to face her former friend, arms falling open helplessly. “Amata…”  
  
“Donna,” her voice turned cold. She took a pointed step backward.

She wasn’t really quite sure what she anticipated. A hug seemed trivial and awkward at best, but she would be remiss if she didn’t say the thought crossed her mind. Instead, she settled on her extending her hand in the hopes Amata would take it.

Pain shot up her arm as Amata smacked her hand away, so hard the sound reverberated into the quiet of the room.

“Two years gone and you come in here and try to shake my hand?” An angry hiss escaped through her teeth. “This isn’t a business transaction, Donna.”

Donna shook the stinging away in her hand. “Really loving this heartwarming reunion.”

“I wish I could say I missed your sense of humor, but the reason why I’ve asked you here isn’t something to be joked about. We’re in serious trouble and I didn’t know where else to turn.”

“I get it.”

“Please, try to take this seriously.”

At this, Donna had to stop a sarcastic laugh from escaping. “I said I _get it_ , Amata.”

“Good. I’ll get right to it then.” Air escaped her nose sharply in a sigh. “A lot of people died the night you left. Jonas… the Hannons. Christine’s mom and sister. It was bad enough they died because my father was trying to keep the vault closed, but then I found out it was all to protect a lie.”

“A lie?” Donna felt her resolve fade a bit. “What are you talking about?”

“They lied to us. Our entire lives. My father…” she swallowed and shook her head. “The vault wasn’t always closed.”

Donna already knew that but feigned surprise nonetheless.

She remembered being eleven years old and trying to research her family tree for a class project. No matter how hard she looked or how many hours she spent scouring the computer systems, she found no evidence of her lineage beyond her and James.

When she first met Dr. Li in Rivet City, she’d confused Donna for her mother. Then she found that photo of her mother and father in the Jefferson Memorial, and all those holotapes of their recordings on the status Project Purity. It all clicked into the place the farther down the rabbit hole she went.

She returned from her reverie and asked flatly, “How did you find that out?”

“After that night, I heard Wally’s dad say we never should have let you and your dad in. I guess the vault used to be open but they closed it off when we were babies.” Dark eyes slid closed. “I still don’t know why they decided to close it again or why they chose to hide it from us.”

That was still something that Donna wondered about as well.

“And even now,” Amata continued, “with the truth being out in the open, the new Overseer won’t let us make our own decisions. That’s where you come in.”

“Another Overseer hungry for power. I can’t say I’m surprised Allen took the dictator route.” Donna took a moment to observe her pip-boy as she spoke. “Why don’t you guys just leave?”

“We don’t want to abandon the vault,” Amata paused for a moment. “Well, actually, Butch wants to leave, but we both know he’s too much of a coward to go out on his own.”

There was a light chuckle on Amata’s end, a surprising display of humor that for a moment made it easy to feel like they were still friends. But that sentiment quickly disappeared as soon as the sound of _his_ name settled between her ribs. She froze her ministrations on her pip-boy, the green and black screen blurring out of focus. If Amata noticed, she didn’t say anything.

“The rest of us want to rectify the injustices that have occurred here over the last two years. Rebuild from the ground up.”

“Noble,” Donna quipped, recovering quickly. “And you want me to convince Allen to open the doors? I bet you’re capable of that. After all, you do have a knack for diplomacy.”

“I don’t think my form of diplomacy is enough anymore. The Overseer has made that very clear.”

Donna’s sharp gaze traveled the expanse of Amata’s stern features, wondering if she’d gauged her intentions right.

“Are you telling me to use any means necessary to _convince_ him?” She mimed air-quotes around 'convinced.'

“I’m not saying to get trigger happy right off the bat. But it’s obvious he won’t listen to reason. I don’t… I don’t want any more bloodshed, Donna. But I’m tired. Supplies are running out and people are getting desperate. We’ll die down here unless changes are made.”

“Tch,” Donna scoffed. “Unbelievable. You called me back here to kill him.”

“I’m not condoning murder… but you’ve already killed one Overseer. What’s another?”

“Fuck you, Amata.”

Donna went to turn when Amata caught her by the shoulder, her slender fingers smacking against the metal plating of her shoulder guard. With an astonishing amount of force, Amata swung her back around to face her and grasped her other shoulder. She shook Donna’s shoulders, an anger so fiery in her coffee colored eyes that it seared the skin of Donna’s cheeks.

“If you’d just listen-”

"No."  
  
"Donna-"

“You’re just like your father,” Donna twisted away from her grasp and put some space between them. “Getting people to do your dirty work for you. I thought you needed me, not my supposed hair trigger.”

A defeated sound left Amata’s mouth and her hands slid from Donna.

“Please.” Her tone was softer now. “Try to talk some sense into him. You’ve been out on the surface for a while now, and I think you might be able to give him some important insight. Tell him about the world out there, how imperative it is to open the vault to traders. You’re proof that survival is possible.”

Donna wanted to tell her about the absolute hell-scape that awaited them on the surface. How violent and harsh and dead everything was—that she was only alive by sheer luck and willpower alone. That if she didn’t have a son to protect, she probably would’ve given up long ago. But she swallowed those words as they inched up her throat and simply nodded.

“And if he doesn’t listen?”

Amata fixed her with a cold stare. “Then do whatever you must.”

Resentment mingled like two live wires between them. She didn’t like the idea of being brought into this as if she were some violent mercenary, but Donna really couldn’t blame Amata. On some level, she understood how truly desperate the woman must be if she was willing to look turn a blind eye to murder. Murder, if it was necessary for the vault as a whole.

That’s what she probably told herself to ease her conscience.

“Very well.” Donna flexed her fingers absently. “I’ll need some time to think about my approach, but I may have an idea of how to solve your problem.”

“Thank you. This wasn’t easy for me.”

“I know.” Donna cleared her throat, trying to push away the rising anxiety. “Before this all goes down, I have some business to settle.”

An inquisitive shadow darted across Amata’s face. “I’m not quite sure I like the sound of that. What other business would you have here?”

“Look, it’s a long story, and I’m sure you don’t want to hear all the gritty details. Where’s Butch?”

“Why do you need to find him?” Amata asked anyway.

“I just do,” she snapped. “I haven’t seen him once since I’ve arrived. Where is he?”

Amata rolled her eyes and smoothed a hand over her ponytail.

“Usually he’s on guard outside of the clinic. If you didn't see him then I’d try the diner. He hides out there sometimes.”

“Much appreciated. I’ll let you know once this shit with Mack is done.”

Donna didn’t bother to linger long enough to hear Amata’s response and turned quickly on her heel, pacing back towards the hallway. If she wanted to have a clear head for this encounter with the new Overseer, she had to get everything Butch related out of her system. The picture in her breast pocket seemed to burn and she placed an idle hand over her armor, wishing to placate the sensation. It was now or never.

With growing resolve, she darted towards the stairwell that lead to the diner.


	4. It's My Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! Yes, it is I, Ero. I haven't forgotten about this fic. Here's a cute little flashback chapter for y'all. Just a heads up: the way this story will go is present, flash back, present, flash back, etc. (maybe two flashbacks in a row every now and again, I'm still deciding).
> 
> Anyway, R&R! Hope everyone is staying safe.

**2271  
The Vault  
**

“Why don’t you want to throw a birthday party this year, _piccolina_?”

Donna paused her ministrations and turned away from her homework to fully face her dad, who was in the kitchen making them dinner.

Tonight it was handmade pasta with his personally modified pesto recipe. It was a nice break from the tedium of eating nothing but BlamCo and bowls of cereal. He’d been especially busy in the clinic lately, though with what exactly she wasn’t sure. But he’d promised her that week of her birthday he’d be home to cook her real food every night—something he took quite seriously.

“My birthdays haven’t been great so far.” She finally answered him. “No one really cares. It’s not as big of a deal as the day I got my pip-boy.”

“I’m sure Amata would love to celebrate with you. And Gomez’s boy. What’s his name?”

“Freddie.”

“Freddie. That’s right.” He took the pot to the sink and begun straining the noodles. “This is a big birthday, Donna- _bella_. You’re officially a teenager. Are you sure you don’t want me to put something small together?”

Donna let a sigh escape her nose, trying to hide her frustration.

She didn’t want any attention on her this year, not after the disaster that was her tenth and twelfth birthdays. Eleven was unremarkable. Her tenth birthday, she got a BB gun from her dad and the Overseer even made an appearance to gift her the standard regulation pip-boy. But it’d ended quickly after Butch tried to take the sweet roll Old Lady Palmer had made her. She’d licked it and then shoved the dessert into his face. 

Three members of security had to pry them apart. Her dad had not been happy, since they’d had the ‘be nice to Butch’ talk only a few months before.  
  
Her twelfth birthday went similarly. Dad had made the mistake of inviting the entire class again, and this time her birthday party was set up in the rec room.

The music, refreshments, and games were a nice touch. But, in typical fashion, Butch had found a way to ruin it. He’d taken one of the pool cues and started poking her over and over again. It wasn’t until the fifteenth time of yelling, ‘Butch, stop!’ that she’d ripped the pool cue from his hands and whacked him in the stomach.

That time it took four security members to pry them apart. Almost got to fifteen whacks before they could stop her.

“We don’t have to invite Butch.” Her dad’s voice cut through her reverie. “It’s been an open invitation so far because, well, we’re a small community. But we don’t have to have anyone there that you don’t want.”

Donna shook her head and turned back to her homework. “Even if we don’t invite him, he’ll find some way to ruin it.”

“They haven’t all been bad. I recall your eleventh birthday was pretty nice, wasn’t it?”

“Only because Butch and Wally were sick.”

A sharp laugh escaped him and he shook his head. “Okay, fair point. Well, do you want to do anything at all?”

She knotted her fingers through her hair and resigned to leaning into her palm, throwing her dad a tentative look. The truth was, no, she didn’t want to do anything at all. If she just spent the entirety of her birthday in her room drawing or reading, she’d be perfectly content. But part of her suspected this push for a celebration was more for her dad than for herself.

“Can I just spend it with you? We can have dinner and see if the Overseer will let us rent a movie from the library.”

“Donna, no teenager has ever wanted to spend their birthday with their old man. Let me just,” he paused and moved over to her, pressing a hand to her forehead, “nope. No fever. _Che strano_.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes and swat his hand away. “It’s not that odd, daddy.”

“Okay. We can take it easy this year, but I don’t want to hear you complain when you realize how boring your dad is.”

“I think I can handle it.”

He placed a dish of noodles and two slices of garlic bread in front of her. The scent that invaded her senses was beyond heavenly, and she wiped a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth. He dished up his own plate and sat across from her, cracking open a bottle of Nuka Cola for her and a beer for himself.

“ _Buon appetito_!” They said in unison before digging in.

\--

The day of her birthday had finally arrived.

Her dad had tasked her with running to the library to pick out a movie, something the Overseer did not grant lightly. Since it was such a rare occasion, her dad didn’t want to be burdened with the responsibility of picking a movie in the off chance she ended up hating it. Knowing him, he’d pick some cheesy musical or historical drama.

Donna wasn’t quite sure what she was in the mood for but she’d know the right movie when she saw it.

The keys to the back room, where they locked up all the film reels, jingled in the pocket of her jumpsuit. It felt like she was carrying the most valuable object in the world and she nervously patted her pocket every now and again, just to make sure they were still there. The Overseer would probably throw her in jail for a few days if she managed to lose them. Or worse… he’d put her on trash burning duty. Just the thought of it made her shudder.

Finally, the library came into view and she picked up her pace.

She’d been lucky to avoid anyone on her journey so far. She’d already been bombarded in class by Freddie and Amata with questions about what they’d be doing for her birthday this year. She’d simply just shrugged and said she wasn’t sure. Amata was a schemer and if she found out her plans were just to eat focaccia and watch a movie with her dad, she’d find some way to rope her into a party.

One of the benefits of being the Overseer’s daughter was that she had ample resources.

Just as she was readying herself to enter the library, she felt a presence appear at her side. She could smell him before she saw him, the arid stench of his pomade and cologne smacking her right in the face. It was enough to choke her and she coughed, nearly jumping out of her skin and whirling around with a clenched fist. Just in case.

“Whoa, nosebleed. Put that weapon away. I ain’t here to hurt ya.”

“Butch.” She practically hissed. “Like I believe that.”

“Seriously!”

“Liar! Get away from me,” she brought her fist up and tried to look menacing. "There's no one else around to pry me off of you this time."

“Chill, girl. I was just wonderin' where you were going in such a hurry.”

She pressed her back against the door, regarding him warily. He was wearing that stupid leather jacket and she had to laugh at the audacity of the size of it on him. The material practically swallowed him up, which made his pompadour look even more ridiculous. He’d barely grown his hair out just enough to get it into that shape.

“None of your business.” A frown tugged at his lips and she let out an annoyed huff, subconsciously putting a protective hand over her pocket. “Real question is why you thought it'd be a good idea to follow me?”

“It’s not like I was stalking you or nothin’.” He adjusted the collar of his jacket, his tone unconvincing. “I just saw you walking like you had a radroach on your tail and thought I’d check it out.”

“Well, even if I did, the last person I’d want is _you_ checking up on me.”

“What are you gonna do in the library?” The question completely skirted her quipped response.

“Nothing.”

“Does it have something to do with your birthday?”

“…you remembered today was my birthday?” 

“Psh, no. I mean… yeah.” He rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “I guess.” 

The gesture was almost… bashful, and it made her defensive stance falter for a moment. His gaze wasn’t on her now, it was at his feet, and she watched him shuffle awkwardly. A mischievous grin broke through the scowl on her face and she put her arm down, placing one hand on her hip and popping it out slightly.

“That’s kind of sweet, Butch.”

“Hey! Don’t say that. It’s not sweet or nothin’, I just heard Amata mention it is all.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” 

“Don’t make me give you another nosebleed, nosebleed.” Now his eyes were on her and he tried to look threatening, though she noticed the slight color that flushed his cheeks.

She’d clearly embarrassed him and while it was fun, it was more confusing than anything. Sure, it was sentimental that he remembered her birthday, even though it wasn’t that much of a stretch seeing as he’d attended almost every single party she’d had. And they’d known each other their entire lives.

But she didn’t think her birthday would be significant enough for him to remember. If anything, she’d suspected he’d try to put every ounce of his minimal brain power into actively forgetting it. He might not be smart but he _was_ spiteful.

“Whatever, Butch. Just stop following me. Go bother Susie or something.”

With that she pressed the button to the library door and entered, turning on the fluorescent lighting.

It flickered a few times before illuminating the room before her, highlighting endless shelves of untouched books and magazines. This wasn’t a happening place in the vault, it never had been. She was one of two people who spent time here, and it was so low-maintenance that they didn’t even staff it during daytime hours.

It wasn’t until she was half way to the back room when she noticed Butch had, in fact, followed her again.

She whirled around and pointed a threatening finger at him. “What did I just say?”

“Like I’m gonna let you tell me what to do.”

“Ugh!” She threw her hands up. “Leave me alone!”

She took a few more steps towards her destination but could still smell his cologne, could still feel him standing there, even if it was a few feet farther back than before. A hesitant glance over her shoulder proved he was pretending to browse the books, thumbing through the pages of something titled _Quantum Physics and You_.

“If you’re going to pretend to read something, try to choose something believable. The comics are on the far end right before the cookbooks.”

“You _would_ know where everything is in here, nerd.” Butch scoffed and turned the book over in his hands. “Maybe I wanna read about qua…quant--uh… physics!”

“Physics, huh?”

“Yeah, physics.”

“Huh, okay then. I just thought maybe you’d be interested in Grognak. Or maybe something about switchblades.”

“They got books about switchblades in here?”

“Oh, yeah. There’s a bunch of them over-” Donna caught herself mid-stride, somehow working backwards towards Butch. She blinked a few times, incredulous. “Wait, why am I even trying to help you? You’d probably just use something in that book against me… somehow.”

“No way. Everything Toothpick needs I already got stored up here,” he tapped a finger against his temple. “Don’t need a book for that.”

“Then why did you seem interested?”

Another shrug. “Just surprised, is all. Who would write a full book about switchblades?”

Donna rubbed a hand over her face out of sheer exasperation. “I’m so over this. Please, Butch. Leave. I have to get this movie picked out and--”

“A movie?”

Oh, _oh no_. She wished she could reel those words back in, just pluck them out of the air and swallow them. This was not going to be good.

“The Overseer is letting you pick out a movie for your birthday?!” It was his turn to sound exasperated. “That’s not fair! He’s never let me do that.”

“Shhhh! Shh!” She hissed, trying to get him to lower his voice. “Keep this under your hat, you loud-mouthed idiot.” 

“Why?”

“Why? Because I told you to.”

“As if I’d listen to a square.”

“Jerk!”

“Freak!”

He closed the gap between them and she readied herself for a fight. Instead, he stormed right past her and towards the locked storage room. Donna watched him for a few seconds, trying to convince her muscles to uncoil and her adrenaline to shoot back down.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ll keep this quiet if you let me look.” A thumb pointed towards the door. “I won’t even say nothin’ to Wally or Paul about it.”

Donna wanted to argue. She wanted to ruffle his hair and make him extra angry, maybe make fun of that smelly stuff he always wears. What thirteen-year-old wears cologne? And what was the point of looking anyways? Not like he could take a movie with him... though she wouldn't put it past him to try.

But instead she simply deflated and nodded her head. “Okay, fine.”

The lock was sticky when she used the key and it took a bit of maneuvering to get the door open. If she thought the library was bad, this room was absolutely filthy. The shelves were coated in thick layers of dust and only a few select rolls of film looked like they’d been handled in the last decade. She peeped one of the labels and noticed it said something about ‘Obeying the Overseer.’ Of course. 

“Oh man! Look, they have West Side Story. Ma talks about that movie all the time.” Butch was gripping the reel tightly but something else quickly caught his attention. “And… Grognak? Why’d we never get to watch this one during the Overseer’s stupid movie nights?”

“He doesn’t want us to have too much fun, Butch.” She blew an amused puff of air. “Don’t break anything. Last thing I need is to get in trouble because of you. Again.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

Donna was perusing a few of the labels, most of them foreign to her, when something was shoved in her face. “Hey, watch it!”

“No, look! Look what movie it is.”

She paused and read aloud, “’ _Raz Bastion and the Amazons of Xarn_.’ That…actually sounds pretty cool.”

“Think it’s some kind of space movie?”

“Probably, but I’ve never heard of it before. I don’t think there’s even a comic about it… at least not here. I’m surprised the Overseer kept something like this. Doesn’t seem like this or Grognak fits his ‘vault friendly’ rules.” She ran her finger along the metal casing of the reel. “Perfect. I think I found the one. Let’s go.”

“But I’m not done looking!”

“Butch, I’ll have to come return it at some point. Maybe you can look again then,” she lied. “I have to get home before my dad’s done making dinner.”

The look on Butch’s face was enough to sustain her for the next week. She could’ve sworn she’d never seen him so downright mopey. It was as if she’d just told him the commissary was out of his favorite hair gel. And now she got to go watch a movie and then rub it in his face for the next year? Oh, everything was coming up Donna. Already a great start to her birthday.

But those thoughts died quickly when she turned to leave and realized the door was shut.

“Did you close the door behind us?”

“No, why?”

“Then why is it closed?” Donna set the reel down and tried the handle, briefly wondering why this door didn’t have an access panel like all the others. “It won’t open.”

“Try the key.”

She ran her fingers along the door only to realize, with absolute horror, that there was no lock on this side. The door could only be opened from the outside.

“I can’t, there’s no keyhole for me to use.” She banged on the door a few times, wondering if maybe it was just sticking like before. It wouldn’t budge. “Uh oh…”

“Uh oh? Why are you saying uh oh?” Butch pushed her aside and tried the handle himself, jiggling it a bit harder than she did. “It’s locked! You got us locked in here!”

“Me? I’m not the one who closed the door!”

“I didn’t close it! It must’ve closed on its own or somethin’.”

Donna could scream. This wasn’t an accident. She was sure of it.

She whirled on her bully and gave him a shove. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? Because I was getting to watch a movie and you weren’t.”

“Why would I wanna lock myself in here with _you_?” Butch gave her a rough shove back. “Being around you for longer than ten minutes is like pullin’ teeth.”

“Because you’re jealous and you like to ruin everything good that happens to me.”

“You’re dramatic AND a liar!”

“It’s true! You’ve never let me have a good birthday. Remember when I turned ten? We got into such a big fight they canceled the party early.” Donna swallowed hard. 

“We got into a fight because you smashed that sweet roll in my face!”

“You tried to steal it from me.”

“Nuh-uh, I _asked_ you to give it to me!”

“No, Butch. You threatened me. You can't stand anyone else's happiness!” Donna was inches away from his face now, grabbing at his jacket. “And now you somehow found a way to ruin another birthday for me.”

“News flash, geek! If I wanted to make you mad, I would’ve locked the door behind you. Ya know, with just you inside?” He grabbed her forearm and twisted her hand away. “Not both of us. Yeesh!”

At this, Donna let out a whimper and slid against the door frame and sat pitifully on the floor, burying her face in her hands. The idiot had a point but she didn’t want to say that out loud, she didn’t have the strength. Frustrated tears burned behind her eyes and she tried desperately to push them away.

She’d made a promise to herself a few years ago to never let Butch see her cry. Not after that time he ruined her art project. Tears were wasted on someone like him. It’s not like he had the capacity to feel bad for anybody but himself. But her shoulders began to tremble and she couldn’t stop the horrible sob that bubbled up from her throat.

She just wanted one good birthday. That's all.

“Aw, c’mon Nosebleed. Don’t cry.”

“Shut up.” She buried her face deeper. “I’m not crying.”

“You’re such a baby. It’s not a big deal. Someone will come lookin’ soon and you can run home to your daddy and watch that stupid movie. Easy peasy.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What’s the point then?”

Donna chose not to answer. Butch would just twist anything she said and find some way to make her feel even worse. That’s what he always did. The worst part was just how stupid she felt. She should’ve paid closer attention and just told Butch to shove it, instead of letting him look at the reels with her.

Somehow he always duped her into some kind of conversation. That’s how he usually managed to get the upper hand-- he knew she wouldn’t turn away from being antagonized or teased, try as she may.

And there were small moments where they were capable of being civil to one another, like those few minutes before she’d realized they’d been locked in there. Now she had to spend part of her birthday with the last person she wanted to spend it with. The very reason she’d avoided a party at all this year.

She felt something tap against her boots and she peeked through her fingers. Butch had decided to sit adjacent from her, right up against the wall with his hands shoved in his pockets. There was a sort of thoughtful look on his face, something she didn’t see very often. She wasn’t sure there was much that went on in that head of his to begin with, but she could practically see the gears churning.

And that made her nervous.

“Did you invite Amata to watch the movie too?” He asked suddenly. “Or Freddie?”

This piqued her curiosity and she completely uncovered her face, taking a swipe at the snot that’d begun to dribble from her nose. “No. I just wanted to spend today with my dad.”

Something she said managed to make him scrunch up his face, like he smelled something foul. But it faded quickly and he was back to that thoughtful look.

“Why?” She ventured.

“Just wonderin’.” Butch replied easily, far too aloof for her liking. “Thought maybe you were having a party and didn’t invite me on purpose.”

“Well…” she started, sniffling a bit. “My dad wanted me to have one but I said no.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Thirteen isn’t a big deal anyways,” she tried to sound confident, like she wasn’t just crying about wasting the day away in a storage closet. “And honestly… Butch, I’ve never wanted to invite you. That’s just my dad trying to being polite.”

A big sigh escaped his lips and he let his head fall back against the wall. “Yeah, I guessed so. I get it.”

“You do?” She asked, barely above a whisper.

She’d expected him to lash out, maybe pop her in the nose or try to pull her hair. Not this.

“Look, nosebleed. I know I’m not _nice_ to you. I’m stupid but I’m not dense, so yeah. I get it.” His gaze drifted from the ceiling to her face. “I wouldn’t want you at my birthday party either, if I ever got to have one.”

“Glad the feeling is shared.” She replied quickly. But then she paused when she finally digested what he’d just said. “Wait, you’ve never had a birthday party?”

“Nah, ma was never one for being hostess. She does like to make me a cake though.”

Donna suddenly felt something clench in her chest. God, she hated that she felt any sympathy for him. He was her bully. He terrorized her every day. But that didn’t stop the sadness that pulled her mouth into a deep frown.

“I’m sorry, Butch.”

The quizzical look in his eyes took her back. “For what?”

“Every kid should have a birthday party at least once. Maybe I didn’t realize how lucky I was that my dad was willing to do that for me every year.”

“It’s cool, I’m used to it.” There were a few beats before he decided to speak again, his eyes wandering to one of his pockets. “Look, there's somethin' I gotta say but you can't make it weird. Okay?"

Donna's mouth suddenly felt very dry. "Um... yeah, sure. Okay."

"I mean it."

"I won't make it weird." She put her hands up and threw him her most convincing look, even though she could feel her heartbeat pounding against her ribs. "I promise."

A shaky breath came up from his chest and he shook his head. He seemed nervous. "I was feelin’ bad about how your last birthday went down. Y’know, when you hit me with that pool stick thing and then Wally messed up your cake?”

Butch felt _bad_? Now that wasn’t something she expected. She wanted to say something sarcastic, remind him that he was the one to poke her with that cue first, but she bit her tongue, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. Though that’s usually where she messed up when it came to him.

He swallowed. "And... well, maybe I was feelin' bad about your other birthdays, too."

Donna's just went slack and her voice came out in a squeak. "What?"

The glare he shot her made the skin of her cheeks sting and she slapped a hand over her mouth.

“Anyways. I noticed you’re always painting and stuff during lunch and I saw these in the commissary…” he paused, whether for dramatic effect or he was chickening out, she wasn’t sure. “Thought maybe you’d like them.”

What he withdrew from his pocket made her eyebrows shoot into her hairline. There, partially wrapped in fine blue cloth and tied with gold ribbon, was a brand new paintbrush set. Unopened. Not like those used brushes she’d managed to scrape together over the last year. Her jaw went slack as her gaze darted between the gift and Butch, wondering what the catch was.

Was it going to shock her when she went to grab it? Was he going to pull it out of her reach and yell “sike!” and then break them right in front of her? She realized her palms were sweating and she wiped them against the fabric of her jumpsuit.

“What are ya waiting for?” He waved them in front of her like a tantalizing piece of meat. "Take it."

Slowly, cautiously, she grabbed it from his hand, trying to ignore the way their fingers brushed when she did. Idly, she wondered if he’d stolen them.

“You bought me these?”

Butch refused to look at her, instead deciding that something on the far end of the room was really interesting. “Yeah, it’s no big deal.”

“Really?" She licked her lips, trying to ignore the way her hands were shaking. "These look really expensive. How…?”

“I get a few extra vouchers a month if I help Stanley sometimes, so… yeah.”

Wait a minute... that meant he'd planned this ahead of time. Like, actually put thought into it and set aside money in order to get her these. Her brain just couldn't grasp the concept. It was foreign to her that he would do something nice, it was so out of character. But this explained why he was so adamant about catching her alone and refused to leave. He was trying to sneak her a gift.

“So you _did_ remember my birthday.” She teased, though the tears were back with a vengeance. She hugged the case to her chest.

“Why are you crying? Aren’t gifts supposed to make chicks happy?” Butch rubbed his hand against the back of his neck, and she noticed a blush creeping up from his collar.

“I just… didn’t expect this. Like at all. It’s very sweet.” Donna turned the case over in her hands, admiring the fine bristles and dark wooden handles. "Thank you."

Then, even though every fiber of her being told her not to, she leaned over and gave Butch a quick peck on the cheek. She honestly didn’t know what came over her. And if she thought he was blushing before, man did this top it. Every spot on his face turned beet red, from his forehead to the tip of his nose to the small cleft in his chin.

Quickly enough though, her embarrassment matched his own once it settled in that she'd just _kissed_ Butch DeLoria on the cheek. Heat spread across her face like an open flame and she stifled a nervous giggle. He twisted away from her and wiped the sleeve of his jacket over the spot where her lips met his skin.

“I should punch you for that.” The tone was threatening but she saw a hint of a smile. “Don’t tell anyone where you got those. I got a reputation keep.”

“As long as you don’t tell anyone I just... you know, kissed you.”

He finally turned to her, all tanned skin and twinkling blue eyes, and stuck out his hand. “Deal.”

She went to shake his hand but was interrupted. Donna felt the door behind her give way and Butch caught on to her arm, keeping her from falling backwards. She steadied herself and nearly jumped out of her skin as a face appeared above her.

“Donna!” It was Stanley, speak of the devil. “Your father sent me to find you, said you were supposed to be home an hour ago. Seems you got locked in, eh? Yeah, this old door sure is tricky. Good thing I have a spare set of keys.”

The older man did a double take the moment he realized Butch was there too.

“Butch, what are you doing in here?" His eyes narrowed. "And why is your face red?”

Butch abruptly let go of Donna’s arm and ran an angry hand over his hair and adjusted his collar. He opened his mouth to reply but Donna beat him to it, making sure he didn’t say anything compromising.

“Long story, Mr. Stanley.” Donna chuckled anxiously and climbed to her feet. “Thanks for saving us, it was starting to get cramped in there.”

“Oh, no trouble, dear. Just give me those keys and run along now.”

Donna happily obliged and handed the keys over. She moved to leave but saw Butch was just idling in the room, hands stuffed back into his pockets and a sour look puckering his face. She gave a short wave but wasn’t surprised when he didn’t return the gesture.

“By the way, happy birthday young lady!” Stanley slapped her on the back.

“Ah! Uh, t-thank you, Mr. Stanley!”

She tucked her new brushes underneath her arm and with one last fleeing glance to Butch, she ran into the hallway and kept that pace until she reached her apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *piccolina: little one  
> *che strano: how strange


	5. Easy Like Sundae Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've struggled with keeping everyone updated. My roommates and I finally got approved for a house and we've been crazy busy with trying to get everything in order. And behold, here's an olive branch: another flashback chapter. Happy trails.

**2274  
The Vault  
**

Donna pressed her fists into her eyes with a low groan, trying to dull the burning behind her lids.

After a few moments she pulled her hands away and blinked a few times, watching as her tunnel vision gave way to static and blurry surroundings. Another flurry of blinking quickly cleared her sight and she, rather reluctantly, turned back to her work.

It was her fourth week of clinical training after the results from her G.O.A.T. placed her working alongside her father. It wasn’t a shock for anyone that she’d be donning a lab coat and stethoscope, but she had been a little disappointed. Medicine wasn’t her passion but it appeared she had a knack for it. Must be in her genes. Or the G.O.A.T. was rigged. The jury was still out on that one.

An open medical file sat before her with pages strewn about; endless paragraphs of symptoms and medications and treatment plans. Certain sentences had been highlighted with half-assed scribbling in her father’s handwriting along the edge of the paper. She got all the way to the bottom of the third page before she realized she’d retained absolutely _nothing_ she’d just read.

Another groan escaped her lips and she tossed her head back, staring absently at the pockmarked ceiling of the clinic.

“Something you’d like to say, _piccolina_?”

“No, dad.” Donna said wistfully. “Just having trouble focusing is all.”

Her father hummed and checked the pip-boy at his wrist. “Well, you’ve been going at those files for a few hours now. If you need to take a break, feel free to do so.”

At this, she crossed her arms and stuck her bottom lip out in a pout. “You sit and read files and medical journals all day without needing a break.”

A warm chuckle rumbled up from his chest as he spun around in his chair to face her. “When I first started, I needed to take a lot of breaks too. You’ll get there. Besides, I know those files can be incredibly tedious to mull through.”

“Is that why you have me doing it?”

He threw her a rueful grin. “Possibly.”

Donna couldn’t help but smile. “You’re the worst.”

“You’ll have to do it when you take over the clinic. Might as well introduce you to the less glamorous side of medicine when you’re still young,” he replied and turned back to clack away at his console.

“I thought the less glamorous side of medicine was dealing with all the bodily fluids.”

“Bodily fluids are a step up from paperwork,” her dad clicked his tongue. “Go. Take a walk. Grab some food. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

He withdrew a handful of food vouchers from the top drawer of his desk and proffered them to her without looking up. Donna let out a heavy breath as she stood, taking a moment to stretch her aching muscles, before grabbing the vouchers from his outstretched hand.

She placed a quick kiss atop his head. “Thanks. I won’t be too long.”

Donna stepped into the hallway and took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the low lighting. She checked her pip-boy and saw that it was nearly eleven, which was two hours past curfew. The clinic must be some inter-dimensional time vortex, because she’d just wasted six hours of her life in that room with her nose buried in papers.

It explained why her dad would disappear for long stretches, he probably got lost in his work without realizing it. Especially since the low volume of vault residents meant he infrequently had patients to tend to, with nothing to fill the void in between aside from research and menial administrative tending-to.

At least most days he had Jonas to keep him company during swing shifts.

She stifled a yawn and headed towards the diner, hoping to grab a few snacks to bring up her blood sugar. Maybe a cup of coffee as well. Anything to refocus her back on the task at hand.

Donna rounded the corner and paused, seeing thin slivers of light peering through the closed shutters to the diner. Well, she hadn’t exactly expected any company this late at night. As she neared the entrance she could hear the low thrum of panicked voices drift into the hall.

She placed her palm against the access panel with growing trepidation, straining her hearing to figure out what she was about to walk in on.

The gears to the door churned and slid open, and what she saw before her was enough to freeze her in her tracks.

There was Butch, arms filled with bowls and glasses of melting ice cream, trying to placate a rather frenzied Andy. Stacks of syrup coated sundaes, some contained within glassware and some splattered across the countertop, littered the kitchenette. Dollops of sagging whip cream spurted from one of Andy’s actuators while another dispensed an oozing stream of pink liquid.

It was complete and utter chaos.

A warm bubble of laughter escaped and she slapped a hand over her mouth, as if to contain the sound. But nothing could stop the noise as it escaped between her fingers.

Butch nearly jumped out of his leather jacket at the sudden assault of her voice and he spun around, blue eyes wide and frantic. He went to move towards her with a scowl, but the heel of his boot connected with a puddle of melted ice cream. A yelp was heard before he slipped backwards, a flurry of bowls and cups and syrup flying in the air, before he hit the linoleum ass first.

There was a pause, then he let out a frustrated grunt and laid flat on his back with a thud.

The doors slid closed behind her as she moved to his side, still trying to conceal the pure enjoyment on her face at his expense. Butch was sprawled out on the floor, spread eagle, with splotches of pink and white coating the front of his jumpsuit. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were narrowed at Andy, who continued his insane ice cream shenanigans behind the counter.

“I-Ice CREAM SUNDAE!” Andy’s fractured voice could be heard over her shoulder.

Donna offered Butch her hand.

“Butch, what the hell?” She swallowed more laughter. “What’s going on? What’s wrong with Andy?”

Butch smacked her hand away and slowly climbed to his feet. He straightened his collar and went to run a palm over his perfectly quaffed hair but grimaced, pulling his hand away to look at a sticky smear of chocolate syrup on his fingers. A look of pure rage befell him.

“Fuckin’ _ANDY_!” He shouted, clearly flustered, and whirled around to face the metal menace. “Syrup… in my HAIR? I told you to stop! Stop already, you stupid fuckin’ robot!”

The Mister Handy continued babbling in fractured sentences, all of which revolved around the sugary treats plastering every surface of the diner.

“Clearly something is wrong with him,” Donna quipped. “Yelling at him isn’t going to change anything.”

Butch reached down and grabbed an errant fork and shook it threateningly at Andy. “Well it should, if he knows what’s good for him!”

Donna pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. It was less out of annoyance and more so out of the urge to simultaneously crumple over in laughter and smack Butch on the back of the head. What an idiot. If only she had a camera to document this moment.

“Did you mess with his programming?”

“What?” Butch stopped waving the fork around and fixed her with a glare.

“You heard me. Did you?”

“Well…”

“Butch!”

“Alright! Alright! Geeze, okay.” He rolled his shoulders and tossed the utensil aside. “I wanted some ice cream but Ma and I are all out of vouchers for the month.”

“So you thought you’d come in here and fiddle with his software? Unbelievable. I wouldn’t let you within ten feet of any mechanical, let alone one as complicated as a Mister Handy.”

“I just wanted some ice cream! I didn’t think this was gonna happen, okay?”

Donna walked behind the counter, narrowly avoiding one of Andy’s wild actuators, and found the open paneling at his back. She pulled out the extension wire from her pip-boy and managed to affix it to his software despite Andy’s constant movements.

After a few moments, a chaotic jumble of Butch’s attempt at programming popped up on her visual and she let out a horrified gasp.

“God, what a mess.” Donna chided. “Go grab some towels and a mop from the maintenance closet and start cleaning up. I’ll try to fix this.”

For a moment she thought Butch was going to argue with her, but he just grumbled something under his breath and disappeared into the closet at the far end of the room. He reemerged with a mop, a bucket, and an obscene amount of towels tossed over his shoulder and got to work.

“Butch, ice cream has coated the entirety of his drivetrain. How he hasn’t burst into flames and shut down is beyond me.” Donna wiped a sticky finger against the leg of her jumpsuit. “The actuators aren’t even built to support stuff like this.”

“How am I supposed to know that?”

Donna absently adjusted a nanotube. “Good point, Butch. Maybe ask someone next time or pop open a manual.”

“Like I have time to read a whole manual?”

“Another good point. I don’t think you’ve read anything in your life.”

“That’s not true!”

Dark eyes threw Butch a reproving look. “Magazines and the ingredients on the back of hair products don’t count.”

He huffed in indignation and furiously scrubbed the mop against the linoleum. “They do too.”

She managed to correct what she could of Andy’s programming. He might have a few errors when executing a command until Stanley could get his hands on him, but it would do for now. Not that she’d breathe a word of what transpired here, but Stanley was sharp and he’d pick up on the Mister Handy’s malfunction soon enough.

By the time she sealed Andy’s access panel, Butch was almost half way done mopping up the remnants of syrup and whipped cream. At some point he’d shrugged off his Tunnel Snakes jacket and tied the arms of his jumpsuit at his waist, leaving him in a plain white t-shirt.

He wiped a hand across his forehead, his displeasure deepening when he realized he still had syrup on his fingers. As if that wasn’t bad enough, splotches of strawberry ice cream also clung to his cheek and along his jaw. 

He looked like a giant, sticky toddler who’d gotten into something he shouldn’t have.

“Well, the floor is coming along nicely.” Donna hummed. “Let’s start tossing the rest of this ice cream out.”

“No way. If we throw it in the trash, someone will see it. And the next thing you know, I’m in the Overseer’s office getting chewed a new asshole.”

She tapped her finger with her chin. “We could pour it all into one of these buckets and take it down to the incinerator. Although… it’s risky, someone might see us and it’s way past curfew.”

There was a beat while they both quietly contemplated. Then the wildest, most unsettling grin burst from Butch’s face. It dimpled his cheeks and he flashed his prominent canines.

“I have an idea.”

“Oh,” she threw her hands up in defense, “oh no. No way. I don’t like that look you’re giving me.”

“Listen-”

“No. I know whatever you’re about to suggest is going to be something insane.”

He quirked an eyebrow and folded his arms over the end of the mop, propping his chin up. The devious look had faded and was replaced with something cool and aloof.

“It’s not that crazy, but if you don’t even wanna hear it…”

“I don’t.”

“I mean, it’d be fun.”

Air escaped through her clenched teeth and she pinched the bridge of her nose again. A few moments passed and she could feel his intense gaze boring into the top of her head, just waiting for her to crumble and give in.

Enemies they may be, but he knew her well enough to use her curiosity against her. The temptation was too much. It was like a giant, shiny sweet roll being dangled in front of her.

Finally she threw her head back with a groan. “What’s the idea?”

“You’re such a sucker!” 

He wiggled his index finger at her and beckoned her closer. She begrudgingly obliged and closed the distance between them. Butch threw a glance over both shoulders, making sure the diner was actually empty, before leaning in as if he was about to tell her the biggest secret known to man.   
  
“The idea…” he started, his voice low.

Blue eyes widened for dramatic effect. She could’ve sworn she heard a drum roll somewhere behind them.

“Is we…” he inched forward, so close that their noses almost touched.

Spotlight. Cue the music. Action.

“Eat… it… _all_.”

Perplexed, she blinked a few times. “What?”

Butch took a step back and let the mop fall to the floor and clapped enthusiastically. “You heard me! We just gotta eat all this ice cream. You know, get rid of the evidence.”

“Uh… Butch, do you see how much ice cream there is?” She eyed the twenty-some-odd bowls scattered all over the diner. “Not to mention, half of it is melted.”

“Ice cream is better when it’s a little melted. Besides, there’s a few sundaes behind the counter that Andy didn’t mess up.” He moved as if to go behind the counter but stopped when he neared the robot. “Uh, maybe you can grab them.”

She bit back a remark about how there was no reason to be afraid of Andy and rolled her eyes, deciding to just go along with this. The robot in question had become very still, only twitching here and there every few moments, and she was able to maneuver past him easily.

She spotted the sundaes and tried to ignore the way her mouth watered. Strawberry ice cream, loaded with chocolate syrup, peanuts, and topped with whip cream? My god, it looked downright sinful.

Without uttering a word, she stacked a few of the bowls, grabbed some silverware, and found herself a spot in a booth in the corner. Butch followed her lead and joined her on the opposite bench, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Just as she went to dig into the first sundae, lest the whip cream melt even further, Butch made a noise.

“Wait, hold on.”

She curiously watched him disappear into the back room, still being careful to put at least three feet between him and Andy. There were a few suspicious noises before it was quiet again. When he reappeared he had two bottles of Nuka Cola. He set one next to her and took his own, popping the bottle cap off using the edge of the table.

“Where’d you get those? I thought you didn’t have any vouchers.”

Butch just shoveled a big scoop of ice cream into his mouth and shrugged. “The fridge where they keep the drinks is easy to break into.”

“Butch.”

“Stop whining and just enjoy your soda, alright?” He snapped before she had the chance to lecture him. “Consider it a thank you for savin’ my ass.”

“Cheers then,” she raised her bottle and he brought his up to clink them together. “Though I think you owe me more than just a soda for fixing Andy.”

He’d already finished his first sundae and was moving on to the next. “Like what, pipsqueak?”

“Let me think.” She tapped her lips with her finger. “Oh, I got it. How about a free haircut?”

There was a beat before he responded. “Yeah, sure.”

“Really?”

“Fuck it, why not?”

“Huh…”

“What?”

“Well… for some reason, it doesn’t sound as fun when I don’t have to argue with you for it.”

“To be honest, Don, your hair could use a little love. And the Butch-man is here to deliver.” He laughed and opened his arms wide, like he was god’s gift to hair.

“Hey! There’s nothing wrong with my hair, I just need a trim is all.” A self-conscious hand fluttered to her ponytail. “Wait a minute… you just called me Don.”

“So?”

“That’s the first time you’ve called me by my name.”

“Psh. No it’s not.”

“I swear it is.”

“Shut up and eat your damn ice cream! Jesus, woman.”

“Fine. Alright, yeesh.”

The first spoonful was decadent and sweet. The sugar coated every inch of her mouth and she swore she’d never tasted something so wonderful. Her taste buds were practically singing.

She did a quick little wiggle in her seat, unable to contain her excitement. This wasn’t so bad. Maybe Butch had the right idea, but she’d die before she told him that. She moaned with approval through yet another bite and washed it down with a bit of soda, yelping a bit when some of the soda dribbled from her mouth and down her chin.

When she finally looked up at her dining partner, Butch was gaping at her. A bit of melted ice cream was barely holding onto his spoon for dear life.

“What are you staring at?” Donna suddenly felt very exposed, looking down at her jumpsuit to make sure she wasn’t covered in soda and syrup. “What’s wrong?”

“Do ya always…” he swallowed really hard and she watched his throat bob up and down. “Do ya always eat like… like _that_?”

“Like what? I don’t know what you mean.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the fluorescent lighting but he seemed to be a bit pink in the cheeks. Or maybe that was the ice cream still stuck to his face.

“You must _really_ enjoy ice cream.” He shook his head at her bewildered expression and went back to his food. “Forget it.”

Donna was thoroughly puzzled but simply shrugged, not really sure how to respond. Maybe it was that weird little dance she did?

She stared at him for a few moments, trying to read his expression, when she realized he was still covered from head to toe in pinks and browns. There was one spot at the corner of the slope of his eye, she wasn’t really sure how it got there, but the more she focused on it the more it bothered her.

A chunk of syrup had started to dry and it clumped a few pieces of his hair together, making it stick straight up. With each bite he managed to get dirtier and dirtier.

Wordlessly she stood and picked up one of the towels and ran it under the kitchenette sink. She walked over to him and raised the towel to gently dab at the stains on his skin. Butch flinched at the sudden contact and eyed her suspiciously as he pulled away.

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning you up,” Donna couldn’t help the odd sensation in her chest. “You look like a sundae massacre.”

“I can do it myself. I’m not a baby.”

Donna studied his face. Yes, he was right. He probably could. And she couldn’t quite understand _why_ she felt the urge to do it for him, when she could’ve just handed him the damp cloth. But there was something so helpless about him in this moment and she simply shrugged, figuring she could sort all the why’s out later.

“So far, I’ve watched you smear syrup on your hands and face twice. You’re absolutely covered.”

“Aw, shit. I am?”

A slender finger gestured at the spots. “Yep. Here, here, and here. And you keep making it worse. To no surprise, you’re a very messy eater.”

He made an almost petulant noise and deflated.

“Fine, get it.” He relented, bringing his face closer to her so she could better reach him.

They were quiet for a moment as she worked diligently on cleaning up his face, letting the towel run from his cheek down to his jawline. It was almost an intimate gesture, a caring one, something that both surprised and unnerved her.

It seemed to have an effect on Butch as well, as she noticed his breathing picked up the closer her hand traveled to the expanse of his neck.

It was odd, feeling the heat of his gaze nip at her cheeks. The silent intensity of this personal exchange that had started innocently enough and seemed so small. But it made her realize that outside of swapping blows, and that one embarrassing peck on the cheek three years ago, they had never really touched one another before. Not like this.

And although there was the barrier of the towel between her fingertips and his skin, she felt the nerves along her spine ignite and something stir deep within her belly.

“Donna…”

“Yes?” A soft breath passed her lips. 

A hand came up to grasp at her arm, warm and strong and insistent. The rough pad of Butch’s thumb traced along the inside of her wrist and she wondered, with some alarm, if he could feel the erratic thrum of her pulse. With one swift tug, the towel was deposed from her grip and discarded somewhere over his shoulder.

His wandering hand trailed along the expanse of her forearm, feather-light touches stirring small fires in their wake. An alarm sounded somewhere in the back of her mind, telling her to stop, to turn tail and run, but she couldn’t. Every small movement, every shallow breath, had her body fixed in place.

A strong grip was on her elbow now, pulling her closer and closer until she was poised between Butch’s knees. Her trembling fingers found the skin of his jaw, eager to explore his face without the barrier of the towel. At this, Butch’s lids fluttered slightly.

Their faces were close; so close she could feel the heat of his breath as it fanned against the corner of her mouth. Blue eyes stared languidly up at her, wide and questioning and unsure. Donna considered him for a moment, taking in the way his lips parted as she ran her index finger over them, trying to make sense of what was happening between them.

Donna barely had time to prepare before Butch’s mouth crushed against her own. Something inside of her snapped and she crumpled into him, fingers knotted into his hair. Electricity coursed through her and each of her senses sprung to life.

The taste of him, the smell of his pomade, the feel of his tongue as it slid along her bottom lip. 

This was not how she expected her first kiss to go. It was an awkward array of knocking teeth and fumbling hands, but she couldn’t get enough. Butch stood, his hands cupping either side of her face, the warm plane of his body pressing into her. They shuffled back a few steps and she found her back flush against the countertop, the cool steel a sweet anodyne for her heated skin.

“Butch,” Donna whimpered. " _Yes._ "

The withdrawal of his affection was so sudden that Donna nearly staggers from it. He was a good five feet away from her now, hair wild and tousled, lips red and swollen. Blown pupils hid what blue remained in his irises and he stared, as if she’d suddenly sprouted an extra limb.

Butch sucked in a harsh breath and placed an open palm over his mouth.

“We just...” his voice was gruff and distant. “I gotta go.”

Donna slumped, mouth dry. “Butch, I-” He strode across the diner and grabbed his leather jacket. “What about the ice cream?”

He could barely look at her. “You’re smart, you’ll figure out something.”

“What... what did I do?” She hated the crack in her voice. “Talk to me.”

Donna tried to inch closer but Butch recoiled, taking a few steps back. The distance between them was only a few feet but Donna was almost swallowed up by the immensity of it. A hiss escaped the back of his throat as he cursed, scrubbing his face with his hand as if he were wiping away something unclean. Wiping away the remnants of her.

“Don’t.” A warning. “Just… don’t, Donna.”

Tears threatened to spill over. Butch had hurt her many times over the years; so many, in fact, that she’d lost count. But for some reason, this rejection was more scathing than anything else she’d endured. It settled over her shoulders and she sunk beneath the weight of it.

“Please.” Donna begged, barely above a whisper.

There was hesitation in his stride, for just a moment, and she thought he might say something. But he didn’t. The curve of his mouth pulled downward into a scowl and she watched his dark head shake side to side.

She blinked and he was gone, the only reminder of his presence being the steel doors clicking softly into place.

And she was left there. Alone. Confused.

The tears poured from her now, unhindered. They rolled down her cheeks and crept through the cracks of her lips. It felt wrong, somehow. Wrong to be so hurt by something she knew she shouldn’t have done in the first place. Like sticking your finger into an open flame and being surprised when it burns you.

And still, her touch found the spots where he’d kissed her and hovered for a moment before pulling away.

The screen of her pip-boy was blurry and scarcely legible and she blinked a few times to clear her vision. It was already way past the time she was due to return to the clinic. Part of her wanted to get back to work and forget this moment had ever happened. But letting her dad see her like this was even more horrifying than having to explain why she bailed on her shift.

Donna regarded the dirtied bowls, some still filled to the brim with melted ice cream. And even though it wounded her pride to have to clean this mess, she welcomed the distraction.

After all was clean and wasted food was properly disposed of—thanks to the incinerator—Donna stumbled home and prayed to whatever was up there that she’d have the strength to face Butch in class the next day.


	6. Speak of the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm BACK babeeey!

**2279  
The Vault**

“Hello, everyone.” Amata’s voice was sharp and clear. Her eyes, slightly shadowed in the flickering lights of the clinic, dragged across the room. “There’s something I would like to discuss with you all.”

Butch flipped open Toothpick and ran an idle thumb along the blade. It was dull. Which didn’t make sense because he rarely got to use it. And ever since that screw fell out years ago, it just wouldn’t pop open the right way. Stupid.

He closed it and flipped it open again, attempting to spin it around and catch it by the handle. A curse passed his lips as the knife scattered to the floor and he swiftly collected it, trying to ignore the stares from his fellow vault dwellers.

Susie was next to him, glaring daggers, and she quickly jabbed him in the ribs with her bony ass elbow when he tried to continue tossing the knife between his hands. She usually did that when she wanted him to pay attention and he scowled, tucking Toothpick back into his boot and trying to focus on Amata.

She was standing with her shoulders squared and her chin tilted upward. The crowd she addressed was small. It’d been growing smaller since everything happened. But still, Amata spoke as if she were facing an army. The leadership role was second nature to her, but he wasn’t surprised. It was those god damn Almodovar genes.

“It’s been two years. Two long years of fighting, of scrounging for food, of silence so volatile it’s nearly killed us.” Sad eyes drifted to Christine. “Two years of immeasurable loss.”

Christine pursed her lips and tucked a strand of hair behind her ears, trying to look anywhere but at Amata. Susie was quick to put a hand on her back, rubbing comforting circles as her friend wiped at her face.

Butch had gotten used to the way things were, become attune to the sense of loss that pervaded his nerves and wrenched his gut into a tight ball. He was used to going days without eating and scarfing down bags of chips or lukewarm sodas when he could. The soles of his feet, now worn and calloused, had gotten used to standing during twelve hour patrol shifts.

And he had plenty of scars from fighting off what remained of the new Overseer’s security team, the bastards. 

Butch glanced at Christine from the corner of his eyes, not strong enough to look her straight on. She’d lost her ma and sister in a fire. Her dad, well… they weren’t quite sure what happened to him. Between the radroach bites and the blunt trauma to his head, they were only left with speculation.

But despite having no valid proof, it was obvious whose shoulders the blame fell upon.

“Resources have been tight. We’ve been forced to cut back on food rations and while we’ve been lucky enough to have medical resources here in the clinic, it seems those are dwindling as well.” She adjusted her collar. “The Overseer is trying to starve us out and it’s working. If the hunger doesn’t kill us first, then untreated injuries and infections will be close behind.”

“I’ve tried reasoning with the Overseer. I’ve tried bribing guards to get us supplies. I’ve tried to appeal to their sense of right and wrong. We have been met with nothing but derisiveness and senseless violence. I’ve quickly realized that peace can only be achieved if those we are trying to appeal to have a conscience. It has been made evident that the guards and their leader possess no such thing.”

Butch stared down at his hands-- his dirty, chipped fingernails and cracking skin. He noticed the way his jumpsuit hung limply from his frame these days and the gaunt, almost hollow shape to his cheeks. Other rebels were in the same spot. They were dying and it was only a matter of time.

“The Overseer must reopen the Vault. Without outside intervention, whether it be sending out search parties or finding opportunities for trade, we’re dead in the water.”

“But what can we do?” Freddie piped up, shoving his hands into his Tunnel Snakes jacket. “As you said, we’ve tried everything.”

“My dad would rather see us dead than open this place up,” Susie quickly added. “There’s nothing we _can_ do.”

“Yes, Susie. Freddie. Hear me out.” Amata took a moment to adjust herself, fixing her collar. “About a year ago, the Overseer turned away a visiting faction known as the Enclave. While I’m not quite sure what their particular intentions for us were, it was an assurance that not only do outside groups know we exist... they're capable of contacting us. Which means we can figure out a way to contact them, too.”

“So…” Christine hummed. “You’re saying we should try to get somebody out there to help us?”

“I’m saying exactly that.”

“But why? I mean, who would even care? We’re strangers to those people on the surface.”

“Not all of them,” Amata said quickly.

Butch froze. Oh, no. No way. She didn’t mean—

“Donna?” Susie asked, voice thick with indignation. 

His mouth felt dry. Very dry. And his tongue suddenly seemed too large and stuck to his palate. 

“No offense, Amata… but we don’t even know if she’s still alive.” Freddie was standing now, his posture rigid and tense. “And if she was alive, I don’t know why she’d help us.”

“After what she did to your dad, Amata?” Susie nearly spat. “After all the destruction and collapse she’s caused? I don’t care if she’s alive, she shouldn’t show her face in here again.”

Christine was fast to jump to Donna’s defense. “It’s not like the old Overseer gave Donna much of a choice, and she didn’t start the fires or have anything to do with the radroaches.”

“How can you say that? She killed _your_ dad too!” The redhead next to her was livid now. “The moment we let her back in here, she’ll finish the rest of us off. Just you see.”

“She’s not all bad, Susie. Donna did save Tom and me from the guards that night,” Mary spoke up from the corner. “We wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for her.”

Old Lady Palmer was next to her and she nodded silently, patting Mary’s hand in quiet support. Tom was somewhere behind Freddie and he heard him pipe up in agreement. Susie and Mary started bickering, but Butch’s brain was drifting elsewhere; the cacophony of the group’s voices creeping to a dull roar.

Butch thought of _her._ The way her hair fell between his fingertips and the feeling of her hands pressed against his chest. Those soft moments, tucked away from the prying eyes of their vault-mates, where they could just relish in one another.

They were in the throes of youth, believed to be untouchable, and had the vastness of opportunity before them. 

Then he remembered her ducking into the exit tunnel for the vault, her dark eyes glazed and distant, screaming at him to stay back. Stay put. Vault suit spattered with blood and bruises covering her face. She’d left him behind without so much as a second thought. No pause, no goodbye, no acknowledgment of what they are-- _were_.

It was enough to make his gut churn.

The heated sounds of discourse cut through his thoughts and he shook his head, trying to banish all those memories somewhere deep in the back of his brain.

“Your lack of concern is-“

“I think Amata has a point-“

“—if you guys would just--”

“ENOUGH!” Amata boomed.

The room fell silent.

“Look, I didn’t like the idea of asking her for help either. But I would much rather put aside my own discomfort than let anyone else die.” Amata’s jaw worked beneath her skin. “It’s our last hope.”

Susie asked, “So we just send out a message for help and hope she finds it?”

“Do you have any other ideas?” Amata shot back.

Butch finally found his voice, “I think we should just leave.”

The room groaned simultaneously.

Amata rubbed a hand over her face with a sigh. “Thank you for your refreshing insight, Butch.”

He shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

“Leave the thinking to the people whose brains aren’t damaged by perm chemicals,” Susie teased.

Butch scowled and crossed his arms, letting his head fall against the cool steel wall of the clinic. He didn’t understand why they were so opposed to just leaving this junk heap behind. There was an entire world out there ripe for exploring, destroyed or not.

And if _she_ was still out there, still alive, then they could survive out there too.

Amata pulled Susie and Christine to the front and he watched their quiet exchange. Freddie had decided to wander off and joined Old Lady Palmer, Tom, and Mary. Butch tried to ignore the slight affront at the idea that Freddie would rather hang out with them than him. Ever since Paul and his ma died, and Wally sided with his dad, Butch found himself more alone than ever. It only furthered his desire to leave.

With a grunt, Butch pushed himself to his feet and went to exit the clinic. It was nearly his time to patrol anyway and it was apparent that his presence here wasn’t needed. It wasn’t until he was halfway out the door did he hear someone call his name. He turned back and realized it was Amata, alone.

“Are you okay, Butch?” She asked softly.

“What’s it to ya?” Butch rolled his shoulders.

“During that entire meeting you were quieter than usual,” she let out a heavy breath. “I don’t know, you just seemed like you were somewhere else.”

There was a moment where he faltered, that façade of his slipped ever so slightly, and he spied a curious twitch of her brow. There was a quiet concern in her and if Butch didn’t know her so well, he’d consider it pretty genuine. But she didn’t really care, she was just doing what leaders do: assessing a potential weak link.

“I know you and Donna had your issues and believe me, she’s the last person I want to see too. But this is the best option.” Amata broke the silence. “Hopefully it’ll only be for a couple of days--”

“I don’t wanna talk about that.” Butch snapped.

Her hands went up defensively. “Okay. We don’t have to.”

“Look, I just wanna get my patrol over with so I can get some shuteye.” An idle hand went through his hair. “You’re the boss. Do what you got to do with her, just leave me out of it.”

“Very well.” Another peculiar look. “Though I don’t understand--”

“And you won’t understand,” he cut her off again. “So just stop.”

“Alright.”

“Tell Freddie he’s my relief. I’ll be by the stairwell.”

Amata pursed her lips and he could tell she wanted to say more but she let him go in peace.

He was thankful for the silence when he finally reached his post. The nights alone on patrol were often tedious but right now he was glad to just do nothing. He took out his switchblade and flipped it open a few times, keeping an ear out for any approaching footsteps or voices.

But as the minutes ticked on, he couldn’t stop the trajectory of his thoughts. The idea of seeing her again, even in passing or a fleeting glance, made his head pound. It was enough to put him on edge.

He was so fucking angry at her. He felt stupid for thinking they had something real, stupid for being heartsick the weeks after she left, and stupid for not seeing how little he mattered to her at all.  
  
Butch knocked his head against the wall with a groan.

If she decided to show up and help, would she talk to him? Did she even want to see him again? If he was so easily discarded before, he would assume the answer to that would be a resounding ‘no.’ And yet, he couldn’t help that tiny flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he was wrong.

He knocked his head again, this time with more force. This type of thinking did him no good.

It was too much for his poor nutrient starved brain to process. His body ached constantly with the sort of exhaustion that was bone deep and persistent. And though he ate when he could, that unnerving edge of hunger never seemed to subside, only adding to his fraying nerves.

In short: Butch DeLoria was a mess. Two years of his life, gone. And for what?

All the infighting, all the death, and the nights spent shivering under piles of dirty blankets, it all felt so pointless. They’d done everything they could to rectify and heal and undo the damage done by Mack and Dr. Rossi, and this is where it’d gotten them: on the verge of extinction and relying on an exiled vault-mate to save the day.

The anger returned and he hissed. If she had just taken him with her, he could’ve avoided all of this.

He wouldn’t have had to watch his ma die or see Paul slowly succumb to his injuries. He wouldn’t have had to see Old Lady Palmer cry and wail when they recovered Jonas’ body or watch Christine break down when she found out what happened to her family. And even though they were on the outs with the guards, he was still haunted by Officer Wilkins’ screams when he found out both of his children were dead.

If only he’d just followed her out to the surface; just ignored her command to stay put and left with her. At the time, it didn't feel like an option. He was too hurt, too overcome with shock. Too much of a god damned coward.  
  
Toothpick was quickly put away and he shoved his fists into the pockets of his jacket. He’d made up his mind. Seeing her was the last thing he wanted to do and he was going to stay well out of her reach. And once he was on the surface, he could leave this shit hole behind and make a new life for himself.  
  
Yeah, that’s what he’d do.

  
\------

There was a hand on his shoulder, light but insistent, and Butch stirred. He blinked away the tiredness from his eyes and warily looked at the person crouched in front of him.

“Wha…?”  
  
“Hey, Butch. I’m here to relieve you.”   
  
With a yawn, Butch checked his pip-boy. “You’re an hour early, Gomez.”

“I know, but…” he trailed off for a moment, “I think you could use a break, man. I mean, you fell asleep a while ago and I’ve been popping in to check on you every few hours. I can tell you’re exhausted.”

At this, Butch frowned and shoved Freddie’s hand away. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I didn’t say you did,” he sighed.

“You should’ve woken me up earlier.” Butch grumbled and stood. “If Amata caught me sleeping, I’d never hear the end of it.”

“I felt bad.”

“…why?”

“Well, I saw how upset you were during the meeting and the way you stormed off after talking to Amata. With everything going on, it felt wrong to bother you, even if you were snoozing on the job.” Freddie shrugged. “Things aren’t easy right now and I get that.”

“I wasn’t upset.” He replied quickly. “Why’d you think I was upset? Did Amata say something?”

“No! Chill.” Freddie shook his head. “I know an angry Butch when I see one.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah.”

There was palpable silence as the two men just stood there, gazing down the stairwell at nothing in particular. Freddie shuffled from one foot to the other and it was enough to put Butch’s attention on high alert.

Freddie was typically pretty reserved but this stillness felt heavy with intent-- like he was rearing up to say some stupid shit. Butch had half a mind to shove him down the stairs and book it.

“It’s going to be weird having Donna back, don’t you think?” Freddie tried to sound aloof. “Even if it’s just temporary.”

There it was.

“Fuckin’ A…” he groused.

“Come on, I saw the face you made when Amata announced it.”

“Shut. Up.”

“I’m just saying.”  
  
“First Amata, now you… who’s next? Old Lady Palmer? Are we gonna talk about our feelings and hold hands?” Butch aggressively rubbed his face. “Why do you guys gotta bring this shit up?”

“Well…”

“Well-fucking-what, Gomez?”

“I know you and Donna always had this love-hate thing going on, but I thought you’d be at least a little excited to see her again. Even if it’s only to torment her like old times.” He said easily. “Pull her hair or call her nosebleed or something.”

“Love-hate thing?” Butch suddenly went rigid but tried to keep his cool.

“Yeah, like… you both fought constantly but I could tell you were sweet on her.”

“Nah, it wasn’t like that. Not even close.”

“Liar.”

“You wanna say that again?” Butch grabbed his fellow Tunnel Snake by the lapel and brought him close.

“She was one of my closest friends, Butch.” Freddie was unfazed by Butch’s attempt at intimidation. “And so were you. I don’t think anyone else could tell, so it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me. That kind of talk can fuck with a man’s reputation,” Butch sniffed and let him go. “I ain’t sweet on the pipsqueak, so you better get that idea out of your head before I beat it out.”

“Whatever you say, Butch.” Freddie rolled his eyes. “But your reaction makes me think I’ve hit a nerve.”

With a defeated groan, Butch leaned against the wall and let his head loll to each side. He eyed the man before him with trepidation, wondering when it’d become so easy for him to not only stand up to Butch, but read people with such adeptness.

“I don’t want to talk about her.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I just want this to all be over and done with.”

“I understand.” Freddie lobbed him in the shoulder. “Head to the clinic and go back to sleep.”

“It’s cool. I’ll finish out this hour and then you can take over.” Butch pushed away from the wall and walked over to the barricade at the top of the stairs.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he swallowed another yawn. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Freddie hesitated for a moment. “I know you’re not big on all that emotions bullshit but…”

Another pause.

Butch tried hard not to roll his eyes. “Spit it out.”

“I can tell something is bothering you. I don’t know what happened with Donna, or if that’s even what the problem actually is, but I’m here.” Freddie shifted awkwardly. “To talk. If you need it.”

Something heavy twisted in his gut and turned to face his fellow gang member fully. It wasn’t often that someone offered to just _talk_ to Butch. Not like he ever made it easy for anyone to approach him, but that was intentional on his part. He liked to be left alone. And in the off chance he did feel something, it was always anger.

Anger was easy to understand. It was comfortable; a constant undercurrent beneath him that he could tap into and supplement any other emotion with. He knew what to do with that feeling, how to bend and manipulate it to fit his needs.

This offer caught him off guard and he suppressed the uncomfortable wave of loss that crashed against him. That mournful sensation that’d been lingering in the background of his life for so long now. It was fighting to get out, to be discussed and validated, but he swallowed it until it was only a ripple.

Talking never did him any good before, it wouldn’t help to start now.

So he just shrugged and turned back around, hoping Freddie hadn’t picked up on that small shift in his demeanor.

“I’m good, man… but thanks.”

When he turned back around, Freddie was gone. Butch heaved out a sigh and deflated, leaning against the barricade. He let his fingers run against the smooth steel of it, allowing it to ground him, bring him back from wherever his damn consciousness drifted off to. His heart was pounding against his sternum and he grimaced.

God, he fucking hated this. He hated hearing her name. Loathed thinking about her. But it seemed the people around him just couldn’t stop bringing her up. He wished they would just allow him to let go, but with each mention of her name they drew him back in. He knew, deep down, that they didn’t understand the gravity of the effect this had on him.

They weren’t fully aware of what happened, of what they were to one another. Or what he _thought_ they were.

And he wished he could just rid himself of this. Why was this so hard? Why did he still give a fuck?

Just as he went to push himself up, he heard the soft lilting of conversation drift down the hallway below. Every muscle in his body went stiff and he strained his hearing, fighting the urge to lean forward.

A voice, clearly male, echoed up to his location.

“This is as far as I can take you, Donna.”

Immediately, everything inside Butch went cold. There was a moment where he was sure he hadn’t heard that right, or that he’d imagined it, but then a response followed shortly.

“I see,” Silence. “I haven’t seen any danger so far, aside from the giant holes in the walls. Maybe a few tables that could be tripped over if someone wasn’t paying attention.”

_No._

_No, no, no._

She was here already. It'd only been a little over ten hours. He thought he had more time.

His pulse thrummed erratically and every ounce of oxygen was sucked from his lungs. A debilitating weight sunk into each of his limbs and he tried to move, tried to run, but they felt like lead. He could feel the sheen of sweat break out across his skin and he blinked, anxiety rising as his vision wavered around the edges.

They were talking again but everything was fuzzy, like they’d been sucked into an upsurge of static. He couldn’t process what they were discussing but he could see her shadow pitched against the wall. He watched it grow larger as she inched closer to the stairwell.

It sent a shock through his system and he finally found the strength to move. He bolted to the other wall and hid, allowing himself a glance around the corner. Within seconds, she was within his line of sight and the world beneath him shifted.

Long gone was her obnoxious bright vault attire; instead, it was replaced by a glossy black jumpsuit layered with impossibly thick armor. Though he could only glimpse her profile, he could tell the surface had changed her irreparably. Sallow cheeks gave way to newly refined cheekbones and a sharpened jawline. Her hair was still that shade of dark blonde he remembered, but it was much longer now and strung up into a high ponytail.

New scars covered the expanse of her exposed neck, one particularly long scar jutting across her cheek. Some type of large rifle dangled from her back and emitted a green, shimmering aura. She looked unmovable; an imposing stalwart figure against steel and rust.

He both knew her and didn’t. This woman was familiar, but in the way when one saw a face they recognized but couldn’t quite place where from. It was only when she waved and gave a start as if to ascend the stairs did he finally take his leave.

The sound of footsteps halted and he was wary that she’d spotted him. But when they started up again without issue, he decided to keep moving. Patrol be damned. Amata can lecture him about abandoning his post if she wanted to, but he needed to leave.

He picked up his pace, heavy feet slamming against the grating, and he could only imagine the looks the rebels in the clinic exchanged as he shot past the doorway. The air he drew into his lungs was harsh and ragged as he went, but he couldn’t stop. Apprehension nipped at his heels and that fiery, insistent fury was roiling inside of him.

It wasn’t until he was at the diner, smashing the button of the control panel in a frenzy, did he stop. And once he stepped into the room he found a booth in the far corner and collapsed into it.

He just hoped he’d be safe from her here.


	7. Sir, Lend Me Your Comb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, here's a fun, light-hearted chapter. Another flashback. The next one will be a tad heavier so, buckle up.

**2274  
**

It was going to be another tedious day at the shop.

Butch eyed the sliding doors with a grimace and waved his worker’s ID badge across the sensor. It chirped in approval and he stepped through the threshold, squinting as the lights flickered to life. 

To no surprise, the shop was empty. Bea was the one scheduled the morning shift, due to him still having regular class hours on the week days, but it seemed she hadn’t even bothered to show up today.

Typical. She was probably off somewhere bullying the other vault dwellers into a palm and/or tarot reading. He blew an annoyed puff of air and went to set up his station. Not like it mattered. It wasn’t like there was a line of customers out the door.

It’d been months since his apprenticeship started and he’d performed maybe five full services _at most_. He spent a majority of his shifts with his feet kicked up on the station and a magazine in his hands.

Still, he went to the supply cabinet and withdrew all the items he’d need with practiced meticulousness. By this point, he’d done this so many times that is was practically muscle memory.

Combs. Shears. Clippers. Trimmers. Barbicide for disinfecting tools between clients. Cape. Blow dryer. Sectioning clips. Towels. Mixing bowls. Brushes. Maybe he’d throw in some texturizing shears today… or a straight razor. What the hell, right? Break up the monotony a little bit and have some fun.

Once everything was neatly laid out, organized to his specification and draped neatly with a towel, he headed to the back to take inventory. 

Usually Bea was the one to do this, but the Overseer had been hounding them about counts being off and items going missing. Not like Butch had anything to do with the few pots of pomade that’d been swiped. Absolutely not. Heh.

He withdrew the clipboard with all the items and their codes, pen at the ready. Half way through marking down that all hairsprays were present and accounted for, he heard the sliding doors to the shop open with a _whoosh_. 

He checked the time on his pip-boy and assumed it was Bea, traipsing in with some excuse about mixing up her shifts or losing track of time.

“I don’t want none of your excuses today, grandma.” Butch yelled over his shoulder. He was tucked in the back and couldn’t hear if she’d responded. “I’ve got everything under control so you can get back to whatever creepy black magic shit you’ve been up to.”

Silence filled the space between him and the salon floor. With a groan, Butch deposited the clipboard on one of the shelves and stalked towards the front.

“Hey! Are you liste--” the words died in his throat.

There, standing in the center of the store, was Donna.

At his arrival, she practically jumped out of her skin and gave him a nervous smile. A pack was slung over her shoulder and she seemed to fidget on the spot, wrenching her hands together as if not quite sure what to do with them. It was the first time he’d seen her outside of school since _that_ night.

His body reacted before his mind could. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck raised, as if the air were suddenly charged with electricity, and a fluttering sensation formed somewhere in his chest. 

Anxiety coursed through him and he blinked once, twice, before immediately turning back around and retreating to the supply room.

“Butch!”

“Nope. Not dealing with this today,” he barked as he picked up his clipboard.

The curtain that divided him and this threat to his sanity wavered as she peeked through. All he saw was the top of her head before he pointedly turned his back on her. He could feel the intensity of her dark gaze boring into his back and he inwardly groaned.

“You can’t ignore me forever,” she remarked softly.

“Watch me,” he snapped.

The stillness that settled between them was tangible, and Butch was certain if he reached his hand out he could feel the weight of it. But her presence behind him didn’t relent. 

The numbers and product names were blurry and out of focus, but he still pretended to check away at the boxes and scribble numbers.

Her being this close to him was enough to throw off his entire equilibrium. It was the same sort of uncomfortable curiosity he felt in the diner; a peculiar draw that pulled every ounce of his attention to her. 

There was an urge, somewhere deep down, that begged to be acknowledged. But he stubbornly ignored it, replacing it with carefully curated loathing.

“You promised me a free haircut.”

“I didn’t promise you shit, nosebleed.”

“Yes you did!” She snapped back. “I saved your ass with Andy and you agreed to help me with my hair in return.”

At this, Butch turned and faced her fully. “Well, I take it back.”

“You can’t do that!”

“I just did. What are you gonna do about it?” She just glared at him in response. He pointed his pen at her and then the door. “Exactly. Now get out and stop pesterin’ me, I have work to do.”

“You’re the fucking worst.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” He turned back around and waited for her to get the message and just fucking go.

Finally, he heard the shuffling of the curtain and the weight of her stare evaporate. A heavy sigh of relief escaped his nose and he set down the clipboard, running a hand across his eyes. 

It was easier to deal with her before the lines of their dynamic were blurred. And he couldn’t help but miss the days where they would just beat the shit out of each other and that was that.

Now, he could barely pay attention to anything if she was in the same room as him. He couldn’t even bring it upon himself to hassle her because interacting with her in any way brought up all these weird feelings he couldn’t digest. It was just easier to cut off the source and pretend everything was normal.

The doors to the salon _whooshed_ open again.

“Oh! Miss Rossi, how are you today?”

Fuck. That was Bea.

“Uh, hey Bea. I’m doing alright.”

“Are you heading out already?” The older woman asked.

“Yeah. I thought I had an appointment but _apparently_ I was wrong.”

Butch noted the snark in Donna’s tone.

“Nonsense. I know for a fact that we have a relatively open book today. We were slow enough this morning that I didn’t think it’d be worth it to open,” she replied sweetly. “Go have a seat and I’ll grab Butch.”

“Oh, no. Aha, no—Bea, it’s okay!” Donna sputtered her protest. “It’s fine, I’ll come back another day.”

“Hush now. I know how important today is.”

Butch furrowed his brows at that. What day was today? It wasn’t Donna’s birthday. He eyed the date on his pip-boy and, as far as he was concerned, it was just a typical Friday afternoon. 

The curtains behind him rustled and he turned to see Bea had fully stepped into the back room, a scalding look directed at him.

“Were you aware you had a customer waiting out here?”

“She ain’t actually a customer,” Butch tried to keep his cool.

“Really? Because to me, it sounded like she had an appointment.”

He gave up on trying to take inventory. “That was a mistake.”

“A mistake? On a day like today? Not likely.”

“What’s goin’ on today?”

“Butch…” Bea looked surprised. “It’s the winter formal tonight.”

He froze and gaped at the older woman, letting out an irritated grunt. “Fuuuuck, I completely forgot.”

“There are literally posters about it on every wall from here to the engineering wing,” she looked unconvinced. “I don’t know how you could forget.”

“I’m not observant.”

“Clearly.” She clicked her tongue in annoyance.

He vaguely remembered the princess handing out fliers and trying to harangue others into helping her plan the event, but he could’ve sworn it was going to be after Christmas. 

It’s not like he gave a damn either way. Dressing up in a stuffy suit and watching people awkwardly dance to pre-approved vault tunes was not his idea of a good time.

“Stop dawdling and get out there.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“It’s not my shift, so it’s not my customer,” she reasoned. “I only came in to check on you and make sure everything was going smoothly.”

Butch felt his mood sour instantly. “I’ve had to take the last two appointments you missed, Bea. Can’t you do me a solid just this once?”

“Nope!” Another sweet smile. “I’ve got a prior engagement with a certain teacher tonight.”

“Ugh, gross.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so combative over this. What’s the big deal anyways?”

Butch tried to push the memory of Donna pressed up against the table in the diner, muttering his name between fevered kisses, out of his mind. Or the crushed look of disappointment on her face when he’d come to his senses and pulled away. 

He suppressed a shiver and noted the flush creeping up from his collar.

The last thing he wanted was to be put in a position that allowed him to run his fingers through her hair, or touch her face if he needed her to adjust, or to attentively wash her hair. 

With others in the vault, it was just business and he was able to stick to the propriety required of a professional. Doing this with Donna felt much more… intimate.

He’d mentally swore he’d never allow himself alone with her again. He wasn’t sure he would be able to put a cap on his self-control. It was odd, seeing as that’d never been a problem for him before. 

The best way to avoid sin was to remove all temptation, right? Not like he was religious, but it seemed an effective method nonetheless.

Bea was staring at him. “Well?”

“It’s not a big deal,” he swallowed. “I just don’t feel like doing it.”

“Well, that’s the job, sugar. Sometimes you don’t even want to look at a pair of shears, but this is what you’ve been assigned. So,” she gestured to the curtain once again, “get on with it.”

Butch eyed the doorway and hated the way his stomach dropped to his toes. He hoped Bea wouldn’t notice the nervous sweat that broke out across his skin. 

What if Donna… no, fuck that. Nope. He wasn’t gonna let his brain go in that direction. He was a Tunnel Snake and she was just a measly little art nerd.

He shoved past Bea and went into the salon, noticing that Donna hadn’t taken the invitation to sit. Instead, she was leaning against the station and idly picking at her nails, her pack discarded somewhere near the doorway.

“Sorry for the misunderstanding,” Bea languidly brushed a hand against Donna’s shoulder. “He’ll take good care of you. The boy does have a surprising knack for updos.”

Donna looked uneasy but thanked Bea with a curt nod.

Bea swiped a can of hairspray, adjusted her coiffed hair, reapplied her lipstick, and did a little twirl in the mirror. The woman was most likely in her forties but today she reminded Butch of an infatuated teenager. He briefly wondered if all chicks looked this excited before a date or if Mr. Brotch was just that much of a Casanova.

With an excited wave, Bea fluttered out of the salon and practically floated down the hallway, leaving just him and Donna.

Alone.

In an empty room.

Just them.

No problem, easy.

Wordlessly, he swiveled the station chair around and proffered the seat. There was hesitation on her end and Butch just quirked an impatient brow. Slowly, as if he were a two-headed radroach about to bite, she approached the seat with caution and gradually sank into it. 

Her hair was already up and out of the way, so he hastily grabbed the cape and latched it around her shoulders, fastening the buttons at the nape of her neck.

As hard as he tried to avoid connecting skin with skin, the pad of his index finger inadvertently brushed the space between her hairline and the cape, and she shuddered in response. He watched the way her skin prickled with goose flesh and he mentally cursed Bea for leaving them here unsupervised. 

Maybe he could just kick her out and make up some bullshit about doing her hair—not like Bea would notice a difference.

“I know Bea said you were good at updos…” Donna muttered, barely audible, “but I was thinking just a trim.”

Butch nodded mutely and reached up to release her hair from her messy bun. With practiced fingers, he pulled and twisted the tie until it gave way. Her hair tumbled from its confines and cascaded down her back in ashen blonde rivulets.

It took every ounce of strength he had to resist knotting his fingers through those tresses and relishing the soft feel of them against his fingers.

As if to taunt him even further, she gave her head a little shake, and he watched, transfixed, as the fluorescent lighting reflected its movement. It was like a dark, shimmery wave and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

Now, Butch admired a good head of hair, this much was true. But he’d never liked hair _this_ much before.

To his horror, his hands were trembling. It was just a haircut and style. That’s it.

He cleared his throat, “Alright. I gotta wash your hair first… so.”

Donna stood and he directed her to the shampoo bowls. They only had two that worked, and he positioned her at the one closest to the main entrance, just in case someone wandered in.

Carefully, he adjusted the bowl to her height and guided her to lean back, one unsure palm on her shoulder. Her hair looked bright and vibrant against the black ceramic, his fingers running through it to undo the knots.

Her hair was fine but there was a lot of it. Just as he would with any other client, he took a moment to pick out the best product for her hair type, and set them down on the counter. 

Vault shampoos were designed with the intention of getting the job done; no frills or bells or whistles. But he knew which brand suited who best, even if most of the formulas were fairly similar.

He wet her hair thoroughly and palmed the shampoo, rubbing his hands together firmly before hesitantly finding her scalp.

The moment his fingers started to scrub and lather, she let out a small moan, scantily heard over the rushing water. Her neck was right there, exposed as she leaned back, and he bit the inside of his cheek.

It was like the diner all over again; when she’d put that spoon in her mouth, the whip cream from the sundae dribbling along the cracks in her lips, and whimpered in approval. 

She’d seemed unaware of how her behavior affected him last time, but he didn’t want to assume she was _that_ naïve. This had to be intentional.

Thankfully, she was quiet throughout the rest of the washing. When they reached the chair, he took out one of his combs and gently ran through her hair, parting it this way and that.

The existing cut she seemed to have was pretty simple. It was one length with no layers and little movement. Not like her hair needed it. He could envision the angles and eyed how much needed to be taken off. 

Without hesitation, he got to work.

It was easy to get lost in a haircut. It was mechanical and his hands moved without much forethought. These moments allowed his brain to shut off and he was grateful.

“You’re surprisingly gentle,” Donna commented.

He’d just tilted her head without realizing it. “It’s ‘cuz I’m a professional, pipsqueak.”

“Could’ve fooled me earlier.”

“Fuck off,” he quipped, flipping the shears to use the points on her ends.

The cut was done and he ran some product through her hair before grabbing a round brush. If she wanted to look good for the dance tonight, she’d need a little volume in her hair. Donna opened her mouth to make another comment but was quickly cut off by the switching of the blow dryer.

With a little hairspray here, and some hard setting with pins there, she was starting to look half way presentable. He dipped to a crouch in front of her, adjusting some pieces here and there, and tried to pretend she wasn’t staring at his every move. 

If her scrutiny were laser beams, he’d have a hole bored right into his cheek.

The reveal came. With a little drama, he spun her around, light-heartedly thrumming his fingers against the back chair for effect.

“Oh…” she breathed, bringing a hand up to pat at her waves. “I look like a movie star.”

“The Butch-man does good work,” he quirked a bit of a cocky grin.

Butch had begun absentmindedly playing with her hair; plumping up one side and nitpicking at a few errant pieces. It wasn’t often that he was able to achieve genuinely perfect waves with a dryer, but this had to be one of his masterpieces.

“I feel…” she laughed, sharp and surprised, “beautiful, for once.”

“You don’t gotta try hard to be beautiful,” he replied, voice a whisper.

But as soon as those words left his mouth, as soon as he realized he hadn’t thought that but said it aloud, he knew it was a mistake. 

Her gaze snapped to his face in the mirror, brows lowering as she observed him. Damn, and he was doing such a good job of keeping his distance.

Her hand found his, sloping over her shoulder and stopping his ministrations. Butch blinked, wondering at the contact, and watched as his fingers intertwined with hers automatically. Where his hands trembled, hers were steady and sure. It grounded him, if only for a moment.

Slowly, she brought the back of his hand to her mouth and planted a chaste kiss on his knuckles. He found himself transfixed by the way her lips moved, stared as her tongue darted out to lick them afterward, as if tasting him.

Big, brown eyes opened and fluttered as they met his own, glossy with warmth and affection.

“Thank you, Butch.” She finally said. “You’re pretty sweet when you want to be, you know that?”

He blinked, very aware of their still-joined hands. Not once, in his entire life, had someone ever equated him to being sweet in any regard.

A bully. A nuisance. Annoying. Mean. Dumb. Now those were things he’d heard a thousand times over.

People around him had just accepted that it was who he was; either by circumstance or nature, it didn’t matter. And despite Donna’s open hostility towards him for many years which, if he was being honest, was completely warranted--- she still found ways to remind him of his better qualities.

It didn’t sit right with him, though. It made his insides twist and feel all heavy and shit. 

It was similar to the feeling he got when Donna first asked him why he treated her the way he did. The same feeling that spurred him to repair the art project he destroyed all those years ago.

It was that pit in his stomach as he abandoned her in the diner, that churning in his gut that made him hesitate and almost turn back around. That smothering feeling in his chest when he saw he’d made her cry, again, even when he was trying to do her a favor by pushing her away.

It struck him, then, what it was: guilt. He felt _guilty_. And just being around her, with her sincere smile and kind, gentle face… it only worsened that guilt. He didn’t deserve to be looked at like that. He didn’t deserve her touch or the press of her mouth against his, however much he desired it.

It took every bit of strength left in him, but he withdrew his hand.

“You should go, Don. Don’t wanna be late to the dance, right?”

Her face fell an imperceptible amount before she recovered, nodding in agreement with tightly pursed lips. The cape was unclipped from her shoulders and folded neatly over the chair. A voucher was withdrawn from her jumpsuit pocket and she deposited it on the station.

“I know this was supposed to be pro bono but,” she adjusted the voucher with care, “have this. As a tip. Get yourself some food or something, okay?”

Butch stared at the piece of paper, wondering if he should be insulted by her obvious pity or humbled by the gesture.

“Yeah, thanks. Will do.”

Donna strode over to the doorway and retrieved her bag, pausing to throw a curious glance over her shoulder. 

“Are you not going to the dance?”

“I didn’t plan on it,” he shrugged. “I forgot it was happening.”

“Typical,” she laughed. “Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be there. Save you a dance?”

Butch frowned, then. “Don’t hold your breath, nosebleed.”

She slumped a little at that, but her grin didn’t waver. With a quick wave, she darted into the hallway, and he watched her leave until she disappeared around a corner. Well, maybe he’d have to make an appearance if she was going to be looking like _that_.

Had to see his masterpiece in action, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went to hair school, can anyone tell? I put a little bit too much emphasis on some of the details. Sorry if it seemed a bit tedious, I just couldn't help myself :p although, one doesn't typically style waves with a dryer and a round brush, but it would take a while to achieve it with the correct method and I didn't want to bore y'all to bits.


End file.
